


A Completely Inappropriate Series of Events

by illyrianrhys



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, British Slang, F/M, Lucien just wants a threesome tbh, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Rhys is James Bond but less white, adventurous expletives, an abundance of innuendos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-04-18 13:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 68,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14214138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyrianrhys/pseuds/illyrianrhys
Summary: Lucien's work day consists of spreadsheets, inappropriate packages courtesy of his boyfriend, passive aggressive emails and fantasising about his colleague, Feyre Archeron.Often, when you ask said colleague for a threesome outside a greasy fish and chip shop, you expect them to say no.Yet, she said yes.





	1. Completely Inappropriate Deliveries

**Author's Note:**

> There will not be scheduled updates because I am paying thirty grand for a degree. Pray for me :(

“Package for Vanserra?”

Lucien nodded, barely looking up from his desk where Feyre’s designs for some of the new Spring Court expansions were sprawled out.

The package was left on one of the chairs before his desk.

His eyes were still glued to the plans, annotating on the proposals of costs and labour.

Feyre was one of the architects externally hired for the Springs Courts expansions, from Beyond the Wall Ltd. Tamlin, his boss, had assigned him to manage the projects, specifically financially, as well as oversee the entire process.

Lucien was bored of his job as Tamlin’s accountant and basically his personal assistant. Yet, when he was handed this project, boredom was no longer a state that was familiar to Lucien. Indeed, although he still had to fetch Tamlin’s coffees, manage his accounts and basically ensure the company was financially sound while managing an entire expansion project, he now had the blessing and the curse of working with Feyre Archeron.

She had a flair for detail, tailored trousers and pressing Lucien’s buttons all at once.

Feyre was also the woman that Lucien happened to fancy the fuck out of.

His boyfriend, Rhys, had laughed himself hoarse when Lucien admitted that he still found women, specifically those of the Feyre kind, exceptionally frustrating yet exceptionally attractive.

Taking home a new story everyday about Feyre  _this,_ or Feyre  _that,_ happened to be pretty indicative of Lucien’s feelings for his temporary colleague.

Rhys would nod, press for more details about her appearance and personality, then pretty brazenly ask Lucien to invite this woman to their bed already.

Lucien sighed, leaning back in his chair. He wished that he had a knack for asking a person to share a bed with his boyfriend, but alas, that was more of Rhys’ job. And there was a second issue, never had they asked a woman to their bed, only men. Not that either of them hadn’t had sex with women _, it had just been a while._

The package sat awaiting in the chair before him, and Lucien rounded his desk to take his mind of threesome proposals and Feyre Archeron.

 _Fuck._ The box weighed a bit, and Lucien had no doubt that its sender was none other than his boyfriend.

Rhys tended to send things to his work, ranging from flowers to handcuffs. Therefore, Lucien opened it with caution, after shutting the blinds of his office.

 _I’m going to fucking kill him_ , he thought as he lifted a shiny, definitely expensive, vibrator. Below it, a note that read:

_Apparently, this is the highest rated sex toy by women._

_Ask Feyre darling whether she would like to test that._

_Your handsome lover,_

_Rhysand_

_X_

_P.S. I found chocolate flavoured lube_

“Lucien?”

Lucien almost jumped out of his skin, scrambling to shove the toy and the note back into the box as the door opened to his office, revealing the person of dedication for the incriminating sex toy he held.  

Adrenaline pumped through his veins at the mere prospect of her potentially seeing the contents of the box that he shoved hastily behind his desk before turning towards his colleague, his cheeks undeniably red, sweat forming at his fingertips. The attempts at concealing the box failed.

Tamlin and his fucking pompous glass desks would rue the day.

She was watching him with an amused expression as she shut the door behind her.

“Did I interrupt something?” she asked.

He was certain then, that she hadn’t seen anything.

“No, of course not,” he babbled, taking a seat in his chair to find some damned composure.

She looked at him funnily but didn’t press any further. “Okay, well, I added some of the ideas that Tamlin has requested into a new edit. About the window design and the flooring in the corridors.” She continued to speak as she settled in the chair before his desk, and Lucien zoned in on where she sat, where the box had sat. Where the vibrator had been.

He loosened his tie.

“Lucien?”

His eyes snapped to hers. “Sorry,” he cringed. “I’m just hungry.”

He hated his mouth sometimes.

Feyre was looking completely unconvinced. She leaned back into her chair with an air of amusement. Her blazer was rolled up. Her white shirt unbuttoned slightly revealing a dainty gold necklace. Her tapered trousers would show off her perfect little backside when she stood up. She was wearing brogues. He fancied her so fucking much.

_He wondered whether she liked to be dominated._

“Did you email them to me?” he asked, attempting to change the subject. He would not, could not think about his boyfriend and Feyre in bed, at his mercy.

A nod.

Finding something to do with his hands, he entered his emails at his laptop, finding the plans and opening them.

_Would she object to being tied down?_

He processed them carefully, taking notes of the changes as the silence of the room thickened.

_It’s fucking hot in here._

Grunting at the apparent change in costs of floors, he jotted down the maths to his spreadsheets.

“Shall I open the window?” said Feyre, her eyebrows raised in innocence, or mock innocence. Fuck, Lucien was too flustered to tell the difference.

“No,” he said sharply. To get to the window behind him, she would be closer to the incriminating evidence beside him. The contents of the box teased at him.

“Don’t be daft, you’ll turn into a tomato in a minute,” she said, moving to stand and Lucien stood simultaneously.

“ _Feyre,”_ he warned, turning to open the window by himself.

Lucien imagined himself taking the box and chucking it out the window.

“You seem a bit tense today,” she observed, sitting back down in the chair, her eyes going to the box that the worlds worst desk had failed to conceal.

_Seriously fuck Tamlin and his fucking glass desks-_

“I’m chipper, thanks for asking,” he ground out, hoping the silence that followed would be her cue to leave.

“Has Tamlin been running you ragged?”

He hated that she cared. Dragging his hand down his face, he said, voice softened, “When does he not? But what can I do? I’m merely his humble servant.”

“This isn’t the 17th century, Lucien,” she said. “Have you even had a break today?”

He hesitated. It was almost 4:00pm and he hadn’t taken a single break in seven hours. Rhys always told him off for just this.

“You sound like my boyfriend,” he found himself saying with a shake of the head. “I’m alive, am I not?”

“Not for long,” she scoffed.

He smirked at her then, unknowing of why. Purely because she was there looking good enough to eat, acting as if she cared about him. The situation amused him.

Until he remembered the box at his feet.

“Let’s go to lunch,” he said, rising. Get out of his office. Get away from the box. “I will take my break now if it appeases your conscience.”

“I’ve already had my lunch,” she protested.

He grinned. “Well, milady, I will buy you a drink if it earns your wondrous company.”

Offering her a hand as he rounded the desk, she batted it away before standing herself.

She considered, “Something inebriating preferably.”

“The work day is not yet finished,” he teased, “I didn’t take you for-“

The door to his office opened with a flourish only one person could muster. His boyfriend strolled in like he owned the entire building. Possibly the city beyond as well. Dressed in the impeccably black suit with black overcoat, only the violet tie that Lucien himself had straightened that morning stood as a sharp contrast to his vestments.

“Lucien, my love, I-“ He paused as he took in Feyre, turned towards the door at his boyfriends sudden appearance. “Well, you must be the exquisite creature that is Feyre Archeron.”

Taking her hand in his, he brought it up to his mouth where he pressed a lingering kiss. “I’ve heard all about you, Feyre darling.”

Feyre flushed all over.

Lucien tried to take control of his mouth, but all he could see was the two people who he wanted to live and die in bed with before him,  _meeting_.

“I’m Rhysand, but please call me Rhys. Also known as the ravishing, intelligent-“

“Obnoxious,” Lucien interjected.

Rhys continued without even a glance in his direction, “and charming boyfriend of Lucien’s.”

“Uh,” she said.

Lucien couldn’t even blame her, that was his own very first reaction to Rhys. Lucien remembered wondering why Rhys, the epitome of sex, had even looked in his direction.

“ _Rhys,_ ” Lucien managed to warn, placing a hand on his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Yes, my love?” Rhys’ eyes flickered in what could only mean delight at this situation.

“What are you doing here?”

“I finished my work early, uneventful day, you see. Was coming to grab you for a bite to eat.” He said those words as if Rhys had planned to eat  _him._

“Lucien hasn’t eaten yet, so we were going to lunch, would you like to join?” Feyre asked, it seemed like she had regained her composure.

Rhys looked to Lucien, “You haven’t eaten yet? Damn it, Lucien. You have to take  _breaks._ ”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Yes, mother, thank you for your concern. I am a grown man.”

“I’ve already reprimanded him,” Feyre said with a smile.  

A look passed between Rhys and Feyre that had Lucien regretting this whole ordeal.

“Right, I am truly fucking starving so if we please,” said Lucien, placing a hand on Feyre’s back.

“Oh yes, it’s best if I leave quickly because Tamlin called the security on me,” Rhys declared, “I know he hates me and all, but I have the heart to say it’s because he is also racist.”

With a sigh, Feyre laughing beside him, they left for lunch.

***

He dreamed about this. He really did.

Feyre was talking about architecture at Rhys’ request, and they were discussing animatedly. He didn’t interrupt for a while, simply watching them to interact with great interest.

There was no doubt that Rhys found Feyre attractive. The sly glances back towards Lucien were evidence enough, alongside the lazy smirks and longing looks.

So Lucien sipped at his tea and mopped up his chips in the remaining gravy and sat, simply content in watching.

Until.

“Oh Lucien, did you receive my package?”

Almost choking on his tea, Lucien spluttered, “Yes.”

“I thought we could try it out soon.”

Lucien gave his boyfriend a menacing glare.

Looking confused, Feyre asked, “What’s this?”

A lazy grin slid across Rhys’ face.

“Rhysand,” Lucien gritted out, “May we have a quick chat? In private?”

With a look of innocence, Rhys said, “Of course, my love.”

They excused themselves, Lucien dragging Rhys by the hand to the outdoor smoking area of the café.

Lucien turned to his boyfriend as soon as the door closed behind them. “I could fucking kill you, Rhys.”

“But something tells me that you will refrain from doing so,” Rhys smiled.

“I know what you’re trying to do, you insufferable prick.”

“And what would that be?”

“ _You’re trying to invite Feyre into our bed.”_

“Oh shit, you caught me,” Rhys mock sighed, “I am inviting the woman who you have die hard crushed on for the past month to have mind blowing sex with us. I truly am sorry for my gross intentions.”

“She is my  _colleague,_ Rhys,” exclaimed Lucien, throwing his hands into the air. “She isn’t some openly polyamorous hunk we met off that gay dating site!”

“Tarquin? Oh he did wonderful things with that tongue of his-“

“And you,  _you_  who sent me a fucking vibrator,  _you_  who have known her for a total of one hour now, are going to ask her for a fucking threesome at a greasy old fish and chip café!”

“You’re going to ask me for a  _what_ now?”

In Lucien’s slight tantrum, they had not heard the outdoor open, revealing a slightly stunned Feyre. She was holding Lucien’s phone that was still ringing. But the sound stopped in the few seconds that fell over them as she took a step towards the pair.

“Fuck,” breathed Lucien. “So this is what dying feels like.”

His boyfriend was completely unfazed, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets as Feyre looked between them, her brows knotted together.

“Well, just so you know,” said Rhys, “We totally were not just going to ask you for a threesome. I was planning a pretty fancy dinner before spilling that cat out of the bag.”

“You’re serious?” she said. It wasn’t said in a way that inferred disgust, or revulsion. Perhaps curiosity, yet…

Lucien groaned, “We are pretty serious. Shit, Fey, I am so sorry. You can just walk away right now and we won’t judge you, or ever talk to you again. Or at least Rhys won’t because we still work together, oh  _god_ -“

“I’ve never been with…two guys at once,” she said, to herself more than anything. Her face betrayed nothing.

“Well we’ve never dated a woman together either,” announced Rhys.

Another moment of silence. Rhys and Lucien looked intently at Feyre, who was lost in thought.

“And we don’t just mean, we’re going to just take you to our bed and ravish you. That’s if you agree of course. We mean a nice fancy date, all the trimmings,” Lucien rambled, trying to fill the silence, “But of course if you want to go back to being professional then-“

“Okay,” she interrupted, looking up at them finally. “I’ll go on a date with you…both of you.”

Lucien blinked.

She then started to laugh. “I’m sorry,” she huffed, “It’s just you two are so painfully attractive and I’m just-“

“An exceptionally intelligent and intriguing woman who looks delectable enough to eat?” proposed Rhys.

She flushed again, shoving hair behind her ear. “That wasn’t what I was going to say, no.”

“Well it’s true,” interjected Lucien, gaining confidence now that she had just called him attractive (which most definitely quelled his self-consciousness) as well as actually agreeing to go on a date with them. “I’ve thought of an awful number of inappropriate things when it comes to you.”

Right now, Lucien was sure, him and his boyfriend were just enjoying how flustered she was getting.

“There’s also no expectations,” said Rhys. “No pressure for sex or anything of the sort. You end up wanting to quit at any point, there are no judgements, no questions asked. You set the pace.”

Feyre smiled, light sparking in her eyes. Until Luciens phone vibrated in her hand.

“Fuck, it’s Tamlin again,” she said, handing it to him.

After a pretty painful phone call, being reprimanded for inviting his uninvited and forbidden boyfriend to work, as well as leaving work early and taking Feyre with him, Lucien was forced to return to work, Feyre in tow.

As they reached the entrance of Spring Court, their walk back filled with easy talk, Rhys gave Lucien a kiss. He then turned to Feyre, where he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Until our date,” he said. “And to both of you. Just give me the word and Tamlin can be out of the picture.”

“Rhys, you cannot kill my boss,” Lucien warned.

He shrugged, turning with a flourish and a wink and walking away.

“What does he even  _do?_ ” Feyre asked.

“That may be a story for a later date.”

She shook her head, laughing as they made their way back into work, preparing themselves to face the wrath of their boss.

As they stood in the silence of the lift, practically grinning at each other through the mirror, Feyre said, “So…about that vibrator…”


	2. The Pre-Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien spontaneously invites his prospective lover for tea.
> 
> One too many glasses of wine are consumed.

“It’s 6 pm, you do know you can leave now, right?”

Lucien looked up from his mountain of spreadsheets to find Feyre at the entrance of the office. She was leaning against the door frame, arms crossed in that grey little suit he had been eyeing up all day.

“Tamlin expects me to finish the accounts by tonight,” he said, leaning into his chair, back groaning as he did so. It had been 5:00pm when Lucien had just closed his laptop for the day, ready to go home and make dinner for his boyfriend, until Tamlin turned up at his office and asked him to do overtime. Fucking knob.

“Does he get off on making you suffer?” she scoffed, moving forward and closing the door behind her. 

Running a hand through his hair, he watched as she sat down in one of his chairs before his desk, bracing her arms like she was about to embark on a mission to get him out of the door to his office without use of sheer force.

“Yes, he has a file on his computer called Lucien porn where he records my face after he gives me another spreadsheet.”

“Seriously, Lucien. He’s a complete wankbag. Let’s just go.”

He was reminded why Lucien liked this woman so much. Rhys would have probably proposed weeks ago.

“He’s my boss, Fey,” he protested half-heartedly.

“He can get fucked, Lucien,” she said sternly, crossing her legs. He drew his eyes up from the movement.

That was probably enough persuasion, he thought to himself.

“Alright, let’s be off, then,” he said while getting up, mentally saying a big fuck you to the work he would have to wade through tomorrow.

Feyre narrowed her eyes, though getting up with him and adjusting her coat. “That didn’t take much encouragement.”

Little did she know, Feyre was all the encouragement that he needed.

“I’m tired,” he said instead. “And Tamlin can get fucked.”

“That’s the spirit.”

They managed to escape the Spring Court without Tamlin’s detection. The likeliness that Lucien would be verbally abused by his boss the next day was a strong one. But Lucien found himself not giving a slither of a shit.

Grinning like mischievous kids, they almost ran out of the building as Ianthe, Tamlin’s assistant, had spotted them leaving the lift.

“Shit, she’s totally going to grass on me,” he panted as they slowed down into a walk. The air was bitter at their skin, winter approaching faster than anyone wanted.

“Snakes hiss, Lucien.” 

He frowned. Maybe he should have finished those accounts after all. He was already stepping on thin ice after inviting his uninvited boyfriend into work. Tamlin was undoubtedly afraid of Lucien’s boyfriend, considering Rhys had established himself quite notoriously in the world of business executives. Yet, simply because of his relationship with Rhys, Lucien would always be skating close to the edge with Tamlin from then on.

Noticing his sudden change in mood, Feyre gripped his wrist.

“Don’t back down on me now, Vanserra.”

A shiver licked up his spine at the simple touch. “I wasn’t planning on it,” he lied.

They walked on instinct to the underground, and Lucien had been fighting the urge to hold her hand. She was telling him about her sisters, how she had unfortunately lost touch with them since moving to central London. She hadn’t talked often of her sisters, and Lucien knew better than to pry when his own family was as dysfunctional as any other.

They joined the sea of rush hour, and Lucien had to stop momentarily from his story on how Rhys and him had met.

He grabbed her hand just as she was about to be sucked into the crowd. A man shoved past with enough force of a raging bull, and Feyre drew herself infinitely closer to Lucien’s side.

“Shit,” she muttered, “Fucking Londoners.”

He grinned at her, at her flushed face and scowl. “Grumpy bastards, I know.”

They managed to jam themselves in the tube, the air growing thick and stuffy and full of muttered swearing.

Lucien had her pressed to the door, attempting to shield her from the crushing weight of business people and locals. Feyre was tall, only an inch or two shorter than himself, so he had catered some space for her too.

“Sorry, for crushing you,” he muttered, wincing as someone jammed an elbow into his back.

She shrugged as best as she could, “Doesn’t seem like a terrible way to go.”

Her lips tugged at the corners, and Lucien realised how dangerously close their faces were, how he’d only have to bend his head a mere inch or so and he would be in a tantalising distance of those lips.

“Have dinner with us,” he said quickly.

“You can’t wait for our date tomorrow?” she teased.

Definitely not.

How did he tell her that he just wanted to stay in her presence? That he didn’t want to get off at his stop before her own and walk back to his apartment without her.

“We can have a pre-date, tonight,” he said. “I will crack out the wine and a cheeseboard.”

“Well, shit, why didn’t you say so?” she grinned before blowing a piece of hair from her face. “Will Rhys be okay with that?”

He couldn’t help himself as he pressed closer slightly, having to place a hand above her head to steady his weight before he could crush her completely.

“Rhys will be ecstatic actually, he’s been talking about you nonstop, quite jealous of me having the privilege of working and commuting with you. I would say he is quite infatuated.”

She raised an eyebrow at that after glancing downwards with a flush, “And what about you?”

“I would say that I share the same sentiment.”

He reciprocated the broad smile that graced her face.

He relished in the fact that she didn’t know where to look.

Their stop approached to their relief and they almost toppled out with how desperate they were to feel fresh air in their lungs.

Instinctively, he took her hand before losing her to the rush of people. They didn’t let go for the entirety of the walk back.

Upon their arrival of their building, Feyre tried to hide her surprise at the extent of their wealth. She had expected it really, Lucien’s stop was Knightsbridge, after all. And Rhys’ job definitely entailed a significantly larger salary to Lucien’s or her own.

The interior, however, was enough to put her entire career as an architect to shame.

What in the fuck was she getting into?

Lucien was assessing her, garnering her reaction with slight unease as they stood in the entry hall.

“I’m in the wrong job,” she said.

He laughed at that, easing as he offered to take her coat. “I was super intimidated when Rhys brought me here for the first time.”

She shook her head in awe, letting him take her coat, her eyes scanning the open plan, two story room that had more glass for walls for her own personal taste.

It was intimidating. Everything looked too expensive to touch, chandeliers that looked to cost more than her entire flat.

“It doesn’t help that Rhys has a flare for being a fucking drama queen,” Lucien said.

She turned back to him, as he was stepping back into the expansive kitchen. “What does he do?”

He narrowed his eyes in thought, “It’s a bit difficult to say. He likes to call himself a businessman.”

He’s a fucking mob boss, she thought instinctively, following Lucien. The heels of her brogues clicked slightly on the marble floor.

“What business?” she pried, swiping her hand across the pristine countertops.

Lucien had stopped, to retrieve wine from a cellar that was embedded in the floor.

Of fucking course.

“Something to do with the government.”

Not likely a mob boss, then. Unless he was leading some modern Peaky Blinders.

He emerged from the cellar, something undoubtedly expensive in hand.

“Rhys lives for fancy wine, buys it because he is a bloody snob,” Lucien said.

She watched him move around the kitchen, retrieving wine glasses and setting them down next to her at the island. It was strange, without Rhys in the equation she wondered what type of lifestyle Lucien would have lived. What type of flat he would be in. What type of wine he would drink.

It was difficult to think how only a month ago had she met this man and bonded with him over their shared mutual distaste over Tamlin. How only a week ago had she found Lucien looking mortified over some obvious sex toy from his boyfriend in his office. How she had agreed to go on a date with them. She had to admit, she was infinitely intrigued by them. Having had multiple sex dreams that week about the whole prospect of the scenario was new, strange yet somehow exciting to the point where she felt flustered at the mere thought of them. It didn’t help that Lucien was her colleague.

At some point, he had taken off his jacket and loosened his tie, releasing his hair from his band.

She gulped. She felt awkward, standing in the kitchen basically gawking at this man and his forearms as he poured the wine.

Thankfully, her trusting faith in alcohol helped ease her, the second glass going down a lot quicker than the first.

Watching Lucien make dinner was borderline erotic, his hands particularly the point of her line of sight. She forced herself to talk about everything and nothing, pretty certain that she was babbling to distract herself from Lucien cutting vegetables.

Get it together Archeron.

Putting down her finished glass, she stopped Lucien from pouring a third.

“I haven’t eaten in a bit,” she protested.

“After dinner, then,” he winked. She squeezed her thighs together, glad that the island concealed her.

Yet he still seemed to notice her squirming and he gave her a fox-like smile.

She glared at him, daring him to say something, but he turned back to dinner with a chuckle.

“Take a look around if you want?” he said after a few moments.

“I won’t find any vibrators lying around will I?” she teased, jumping from her seat at the island, excited to remove herself from further embarrassment.

A snort erupted from his mouth. But she swore a tint of pink kissed his cheeks. “I doubt that is the most incriminating thing you would find if you looked deep enough.”

“I forgot you two were kinky fuckers,” she said, the wine letting the words roll straight out of her mouth.

The grin that he showed her was nothing short of confirmation.

She took off her shoes and went on an adventure.

She didn’t mean to get to this point, but she so fucking curious about these two men, particularly Rhysand, who was the unknown of this ordeal. Her feet had carried her through and around the bottom floor, and somehow her feet had taken her upstairs without her consent and now she was standing in their bedroom. She definitely felt like she was impeding, damn it, she was. The wine was making her a little giddy with lack of inhibitions.

The bed was fucking huge, she didn’t realise they even made beds that size. It was perfectly made. Hell, the whole room was immaculate. She was almost sinking into the carpet beneath her feet. The décor was somehow managed to be extravagant yet minimalist that she had to mentally take notes. A floor to ceiling window revealed a different view to the living room where the city glinted as it descended into night.

“Exquisite, isn’t it?”

She jumped back from the window, turning to find Rhysand leaning against the doorframe, hands casually placed in the pockets of his trousers. Like Lucien, he had his shirt sleeves rolled up, though his tie had been discarded, the top few buttons undone.

Trying to hide the mortification at him finding her in his bedroom, she stood up straighter.

“I’ve not really seen this part of London,” she said, wincing as she did so. Fuck. She forgot how intimidatingly attractive he was.

“I could give you a tour if you like, would be happy to, in fact,” he replied, stepping closer towards the window, appraising the view.

Their meeting the week before seemed like it hadn’t even happened, and she cursed herself for being utterly ridiculous.

Rhys was the mysterious piece of a puzzle, one that she had yet to fit into anything other than Lucien’s. As he was standing there, she didn’t feel uncomfortable or threatened by his presence being alone with him, instead she merely felt curious. But she couldn’t brush off her embarrassment. She hated herself for it.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean to…it’s just…this place is…very beautiful.”

His face was soft, held no accusation. Though a glint in his eye held something teasing.

“No worries, Lucien told me you would be snooping,” he smiled. “Have you found the sex dungeon yet?”

She spluttered on air.

Rhys, instead, laughed brightly. “Sorry, couldn’t help myself. There is no sex dungeon. Though I’m sure Lucien would love one.”

So far, she had yet to gain a feel for his personality other than his flamboyance, drama or the fact that he basically oozed sex.

“Here, let me save thy damsel from my induced mortification,” he said, offering his arm. “I believe the chef has called for your presence. Dinner is served.”

She smiled at that, her eyes automatically rolling as she took his arm. Silly. This man was an outrageously perfect multi-millionaire with a secretive job that liked to play silly games.

“I wasn’t snooping,” she muttered as they strolled out of the bedroom. Rhys’ laugh vibrated through her body.

Lucien, Feyre had found, was a superb chef. Definitely better than herself, who could barely bake more than a potato. Infinitely better than Rhys, who she had found was an atrocious cook from the stories of Rhys’ kitchen nightmares.

The wine had gone down a treat, and no longer on an empty stomach, the heaviness of alcohol had yet to hit as quick. But she felt relaxed, comfortable. They sat at a small, round table in the living room that faced the backdrop of the city. The table was much unlike the grandness of the formal dining table she had spotted earlier in her ‘snooping’. This setting had been far better however, the intimacy of the scene was enough to put permanent butterflies in her stomach.

Conversation never seemed to die out, a stark contrast to some of her previous dates. Perhaps it was because, for once, they showed a major interest in her. Rhys was fascinated by her career, just as she was fascinated by the undisclosed details of his. That aspect remained a mystery to her. Though he happily talked of his family.

She cackled at their story of how they first met, on how Lucien had chucked champagne at Rhys’ face because the self-righteous smart mouth cock head had tested him to the point of madness.

Tears were forming at her eyes and she wiped at them, finally realising that the only noise ricocheting through the expansive space of the flat was her dying laughter. She found them, both of them, staring at her so intently that she let out a shaky breath.

Rhys was smirking, wine glass in hand as he was draped over his chair. Lucien however, was slightly jaw slacked, eyes glittering, his forearms braced on the arms of his chair.

She swallowed. Deeply.

“I think if Lucien retained the ability to speak, he would tell you what a divine creature you are, Feyre Archeron,” Rhys said, his voice low and honeyed that it slid right over her skin like silk sheets on a cool summers night.

She didn’t think it were possible for her heart to beat so fast.

At last, Lucien gulped, pink tainting those cheeks for the second time that night.

Lucien didn’t think he could last very much longer. And his boyfriend was reading him like a book.

Never had Lucien been so attracted to a woman, in all senses of the word. Rhys had admitted such a fact, too. They had discussed what it would be like, to share their bed with another woman, a touch of unknown to their pretty adventurous relationship.

And throughout the night, Lucien had to refrain from touching. At work, where he had responsibilities to distract himself and the environment was not suitable to be so forward, was drastically different to the comfort of his home. Where he was sat with the comfort of his lover and this brilliant woman that unknowingly had him by the balls. Well, there was a possibility she may know. Lucien was pretty certain he wasn’t concealing his looks of blatant desire. It was difficult to be discreet when she was sitting there, laughing, smiling, being fucking delicious.

Somehow, there was half an hour until midnight. The empty bottles of wine were shoved in the recycling as they moved to the kitchen, Rhys dumping the dishes in the sink. A job for tomorrow, he said. Which was unlike him. Probably the wine. And Feyre.

“I need to get the last tube,” Feyre said, noticing the time herself.

Rhys and Lucien shared a wary glance.

“Maybe it would be better to find other arrangements,” said Rhys.

Feyre relented almost immediately, either the fact that walking through London and the Underground, alone, at midnight was the last the last thing any of them wanted.

“I have a personal chauffeur,” proposed Rhys, leaning back against the counter. “I trust her more than any other to get you home safely.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“You could stay here tonight, you know that, don’t you?” Lucien murmured lowly, as if not wanting the proposal to show anything other than the sheer desire to be hospitable.

“Yes, but I have work tomorrow, Lucien,” she teased, her lips creeping upwards.

None of them had yet to move, however.

“Would you like to see the balcony before you depart?” asked Rhys, “Unbelievably, it has a better view than our bedroom.”

She nodded tentatively and Lucien smiled at his boyfriend. The rooftop was their favourite spot.

They led her up to the roof terrace, Rhys guiding, Lucien trailing.

As the icy air cut through their skin, the second upon opening the terrace door, Rhys turned with a flourish.

“Yeah, fuck that, it’s bloody freezing,” he said, before ushering them back down where they met in the living room.

“Way to be fucking romantic, Rhys,” muttered Lucien.

Feyre snorted between them. “You two are children.”

“You’d be retracting that statement if you saw the sex dungeon,” said Lucien.

“Rhys said there wasn’t a sex dungeon,” she accused, looking between them as they sniggered. They pulled her down onto the sofa between them.

“No, there isn’t,” assured Rhys, “But thanks to Lucien, we have the bloody contents of one.”

“Don’t act like you don’t fucking love it, Rhysand,” Lucien said.

Feyre settled herself deeper into the cushions, the need to leave for her own home had been pushed back. The wine still had its heavy hold over her body, leaving her slightly spaced out. 

She felt so out of place, the whole scenario was utterly foreign to her. She could hear Nesta’s disapproval, her mother’s scoff of shame, Elain’s confusion.

“Are you okay, darling?” Rhys asked, his fingers were lightly on her chin to tilt her head towards him. “Tell us what you’re thinking.”

She pursed her lips in thought.

A hand brushed back some of her hair over her ear, Lucien’s hand, and she looked between the two of them, locked in both of their gazes.

“I’m thinking I have no idea how to do this,” she whispered.

“That’s okay,” said Rhys on her right. “We’re quite new to this too.”

She nodded, settling herself further between them. It was strange, to feel so safe and comfortable in their presence. They made no moves without her say so. She was thankful yet slightly frustrated at that.

She felt suddenly restless, knowing that she wanted something to happen but nothing was. Damn chivalrous bastards. So on shaky legs, she stood.

“Don’t you have some fancy ass expensive sound system? Some music would be pleasant.”

Rhys smiled broadly, whipping out his phone.

“Fucking hell, he is obsessed with his stupid gadgets,” groaned Lucien.

Rhys yanked at Lucien’s hand to pull him up alongside him.

“Stop moaning, the lady wants to dance, we shall oblige.”

Music sounded through the entire flat, and Feyre sniggered.

“Seriously? Dido?”

Rhys looked offended. “I’ll have you know, Dido is a very good artist.”

“Rhys has a soft spot for noughties pop,” murmured Lucien into her ear and she laughed, melting herself into his arms that had found themselves wrapped around her front.

Rhys cursed at them, “Fine, you both are too unappreciative of a truly transcendent flavour of such music.”

He left it on after Lucien and Feyre insisted that it was fine.

It was easy to sway to, and to sing along to. Feyre realised that Rhys could not sing for shit, but Lucien’s voice held promise.

At some point, they were drawn together by the soft lulls of music.

Rhys was at her front, his hands loosely at her hips. Lucien was still pressed against her back, his hands had not moved from her waist, as if they had found a home there.

She was still suffering the aftershocks of laughter, giggling at Rhys’ inability to hold a single note.

She felt deliciously warm between them, relaxing impossibly further. The butterflies in her stomach had settled, a heat instead gathering low.

Feyre’s hands moved on their own accord up Rhys’ arms to loosely clasp round his neck. He gave her a soft smile.

There was a sharp contrast between Rhys’ dark and Lucien’s light. Rhys seemed to almost always retain this sense of calm, composure, it settled her in a different way to the comfort of Lucien’s presence. Lucien stood out as the intense one of the two, though she had started to appreciate that fire.

Rhys leaned down slowly. The dancing had stopped.

She closed her eyes, preparing herself as his breath hit her face.

Though his lips didn’t meet hers, only her cheek. Instead they brushed softly over her skin before meeting Lucien’s lips over her shoulder.

Oh.

She understood, they were testing the waters. Making sure that she was okay with this.

Luciens hands tightened on her waist and she craned her head to watch out mere curiosity of watching people kiss so close.

It was quite transfixing.

They broke away.

“Is this okay?” Lucien said at her ear.

She bit her lip from smiling so broadly. She was feeling a little giddy.

“Yes,” she said.

Rhys’ attention was drawn to Lucien for a for moments before he leaned his head back down, all attention back on her.

She met him half way, hands round the collar of his shirt because she desperately wanted to be kissed already.

He was softer than she anticipated, gentle, languid strokes. She wondered if it was possible to melt, because she was pretty certain that was the case.

A hand skimmed up and down her side, grazing at the slight curve of her breast and she sighed into the kiss. Rhys’ nose skimmed her jaw after pulling away. Or more likely pulled away.

Lucien was now before her, his eyes dark. 

“Enjoying yourself?” he breathed, his finger traced an outline of her lips, wet form her previous kiss with Rhys. She barely had time to nod a bit hazily because Lucien had cut her off with a kiss.

Where Rhys was soft and gentle, Lucien was anything but.

His kiss was hard, bruising, demanding. Rhys made sure her legs hadn’t given out, holding her upright against him as Lucien’s hands roamed.

It was peculiar how she lost track of whose hands were touching her where, or how Rhys was muttering words of encouragement into her ear that she could barely focus on because Lucien was pulling her out of reality with his lips and teeth and tongue.

She was barely coherent when he pulled away, eyes still closed, barely able to grasp a semblance of composure.

She had to be drunk again.

“Has she fallen asleep?”

A finger prodded her cheek and she slapped it away with a smile.

“I thought Lucien had bored you to sleep,” it was Rhys, and she leaned her head back on his shoulder with a soft laugh.

“I am very tired,” she admitted.

“Because of Lucien?”

Her eyes opened to find Lucien still pressed to her front, his face just watching, eyes glittering in dark amusement, as if daring her to answer such a question.

“He is very demanding,” she said.

Lucien scoffed, rolled his eyes with a sinful smile. “You sound just like Rhys when he is trying to deny how much he likes it.”

Their hands were still touching her, gentle strokes here and there.

Tiredness seeped through her bones with each touch.

“I liked it very much so,” she whispered.

“Hmm,” Rhys agreed onto her cheek.

“I do desperately need to go home, however.”

“Pity,” Lucien tutted.

The warmth of her coat was inferior to that of the heat she felt between them. She hated work for ruining this moment for her. She waited in the hallway for Rhys to notify the arrival of his chauffeur. It was past one o clock in the morning, and the thought of waking again in 5 hours was enough to make her sway in anticipating the next day’s level of tired.

Lucien was standing with her as Rhys was on the phone to an unknown caller.

“Does he always get phone calls in the dead of morning?” she asked.

Lucien was playing with the fingers of her hand as he said, “Sometimes, there’s an international side to what he does. Normally the yanks.”

Feyre was determined to fit the pieces of the puzzle together, of their life that had yet to make much sense.

“Selfish bloody gits,” muttered Rhys as he approached, shoving his phone into his pocket.

Turning to her he said almost hesitantly, “Cerridwen’s here, she will come up and take you home.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I had a really great night.”

“My presence tends to have such an effect.”

Lucien glared at his boyfriend.

Rhys winked, “I must go, I will be receiving a call any second now from a downright cuntbag.” He took her hand as she smiled at his expense, “I have however, had a splendid evening in your company, Feyre darling. Truly. I am ecstatic for our date tomorrow.” He kissed her knuckles but winced as his phone chimed with the call of said cuntbag.

He looked at her apologetically and turned to leave the room, letting his hand linger a moment for pulling away.

That left her with Lucien, who looked worriedly after his lover to then look at her.

“If we didn’t have work tomorrow, would you have stayed?” he asked.

“I think you already have the answer to that question. You still need to give me a tour of the sex dungeon.”

He smiled, the faint lines of his scar crinkling. “Do you think of us as some debauched kinky sex freaks now?”

“Well, are you?”

“Maybe a little bit, but that’s not the point.”

She laughed again. She had done that a lot that night.

There was a knock at the door, and Lucien confirmed it was Feyre's ride home through the peephole.

“See you tomorrow?” she said.

Lucien said nothing, instead leaning down once again to press a firm kiss to her lips.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered.


	3. Champagne with a side of fine dining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys, Lucien and Feyre go on their first date.

Lucien was plotting the murder of his boss.

“Pissing wankbag,” he muttered, viciously scribbling away at his spreadsheet. “Choke on your fucking hobnobs.”

“Who do you want choking on hobnobs?”

His head sprang up to find Feyre at the doorway of his office. She gently clicked the door close behind her.

“Who do you think?” he said. “The ballsack that told me to go back out to the shops for the second time today and buy a pack of plain hobnobs because he didn’t want the pissing chocolate ones.”

“Wow, what twat doesn’t like chocolate hobnobs?”

He glared at her. She smiled at him teasingly, leaning back against the door.

“I suggest maybe a laxative in his drink if you’re thinking of something subtle,” she then said, crossing her arms in front of her. “Work your way up to the poison.”

Lucien leaned back in his chair, relenting to a smile. “Are you going to sit so we can discuss our scheming?”

Feyre considered, suddenly looking slightly bashful as she glanced down.

It was only the night before that Lucien had tasted to the wine on her lips. He still remembered where his hands had trailed. Where her body pressed was pressed in between theirs. The hitch in her breath as Rhys kissed her slow while Lucien had skimmed his hand over the slight curve of her breast.

He cleared his throat amid the sudden silence of the room.

“You okay?” he asked cautiously, choosing to stand. She was too far away.

“Yeah, yeah.” She wringed her hands. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Lucien stepped closer, placing his hands in his pockets to summon whatever energies Rhys managed to when performing such a gesture. Though it felt strange.

“It’s just…” she shook her head. Her hair was falling out of her bun, strands framing her face delicately. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m still a little drunk.”

Lucien snorted. “Seriously? It’s 11 o clock in the morning.”

“It was very strong wine.”

That was true. Rhys and his vintage wines were something that knocked Lucien out a couple of times. It seemed like Rhys had been drinking it in the womb to grow such an admirable tolerance of it.

They were close now, barely half a metre separating them. Too much damned space.

“I’m glad you got home safe,” he said, deciding to change the subject.

“Rhys’ chauffeur is very nice,” she muttered. “Even held my hair back while I threw up.”

A laugh bubbled up in his throat. “I’m guessing wine’s off the cards tonight.”

Their date was that very night. Rhys had marked it on the calendar with little pink stickers. His boyfriend was a rich man and a stationary whore.

She covered her flaming cheeks with her hands. “God yes. I don’t think I can handle being wine drunk two nights in a row.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure there’s plenty of selection at the Ritz.”

Her eyes snapped up to his, her hands dropping to her sides. “The  _Ritz?”_

Fuck, she had asked for them to surprise her. They had made a group chat, much to Rhys’ delight, to discuss plans. Though the chat had transcended beyond the use of plans, Rhys already christening it with flirtation and innuendoes that Feyre not surprisingly responded in kind.

“Oh shit. Sorry. I know you wanted to be surprised-“

She was still gaping at him. “I didn’t think… _fuck._  I’ve just never…been.”

He sensed her hesitation. After Rhys had taken him to all the posh, overpriced places in London, Lucien found himself used to the world reserved for the upper echelons of society. Though at first, like Feyre, it was a resounding culture shock.

“We can change the reservation if you want. We were going to Marcus’ before Rhys changed it last minute. He is just very…” Lucien waved his hand around, grasping at words, “…opulent with his time to impress.”

“No, no. I’ve always wanted to go. It’s just, far more than I expected,” she breathed.

There was a knock at the door before Lucien could respond, and Feyre jolted forward.

“Archeron? Is there an Archeron in there?” a muffled voice called.

Lucien brushed his hand against hers before moving to return to his desk chair while Feyre opened the door.

It was the downstairs receptionist, though their face was partly concealed by the bouquet of flowers.

The flowers were pressed into her arms before she could respond.

“Some guy dropped them off. Told me to bring them up to you personally,” they said. Lucien was certain Rhys, or whatever yuppie he had sent, had slipped them a twenty.

“Thanks,” she said, before closing the door to the bustling work place beyond.

Feyre moved to place the flowers on one of the chairs before his desk. “Both of you certainly do know how to court a woman.”

“Rhys  _is_ a typical romantic.”  _All those erotica’s give him ideas._

“What about you? Are you a romantic?” She finally settled in the other chair before his desk.

_Sure, I could whisper sweet nothings to you while you’re tied up beneath me._

“I can be,” he said instead.

She plucked a note from the bouquet and Lucien held his breath all of a sudden. Because he wouldn’t put it past his boyfriend to write something far too inappropriate for a first date scenario. At least it wasn’t a vibrator.

She read aloud.

_Dear Feyre darling,_

_This is only the beginning of the best date of your life_

_I hope you like champagne and overpriced food_

_See you tonight,_

_Rhysand x_

_P.s. tell Lucien if he has ruined the surprise that he’s a bloody idiot_

She looked up from the card. “You’re a bloody idiot,” she repeated.

Lucien rolled his eyes.

***

“Fuck me,” Feyre breathed as she took in the grandeur of where they would be dining.

Rhys placed a hand on her lower back. His lips brushed against her ear as he murmured, “Maybe later. We don’t want to scandalise the snobbery, do we?”

She prodded her elbow into his side while he chuckled lowly.

“Don’t piss off our date, Rhys,” Lucien said, squeezing her hand that was resting in the crook of his arm.

Despite mentally preparing herself all afternoon, Feyre still couldn’t help the slight clamminess of her palms as she was escorted to their table by Lucien while Rhys hung back to converse with a waiter.

She had dug relentlessly through her wardrobe, attempting to find something that she hadn’t at some point worn in effort to get plastered in a bar somewhere.  _Classy,_ she had repeated to herself as she sorted through the excessive amounts of trousers. Until she found, tucked in the corner, a black slimline dress. It was the dress that she had worn to her sister’s, Nesta, engagement party. A dress to show her family that said  _yes, I’m fucking fine, thanks for asking._

The dress made her feel fantastic, fitting and hitting just to the knee, with tiny spaghetti straps and a straight neckline. Conservative enough for a fancy black tie restaurant but sexy enough that she was obliged to perform a quick happy dance in the mirror before the arrival of her dates.

She knew it was a good choice when she had opened the door to her dates and it took Lucien a good five seconds to stop staring at her legs.

The way they kept looking at her was also indicative of how  _good_  she was feeling. Which may have been helped by the quick shot of tequila she took before she was whisked away on the  _best date of her life_.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before,” Lucien said as he pulled out the chair for her.

“Is that why you haven’t even looked at my face yet?” she teased before sitting.

She managed to catch the slight flush of his cheeks as he moved to his chair round the table.

“I apologise if I’ve made you uncomfortable,” he said quietly. He sat.

“Are you kidding?” she said before her mind could catch up with her mouth. She cleared her throat. “I like the way you look at me.”

The admittance made his eyes snap to hers. A deep molten brown bore into her. “Good, because I can’t look away.”

She bit her lip as she tried to control her flush.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting.” Rhys arrived at the table looking as mesmerising as ever in his black attire. They were both suited to the gods, with ties immaculate. Where Rhys wore black, Lucien wore a navy blue that contrasted with red of his hair which was braided neatly back.

Rhys looked between them. “Has Lucien took the pleasure in getting you hot and bothered,  _already?_ ”

“You both are shameless flirts.”

A slow, sly smile spread across Rhys’ face. “I find myself unwilling to prove you wrong.”

***

The waiter came to pour the second round of champagne accompanied by the starter.

It was barely fifteen minutes into their meal, and Lucien was falling in love with the sight before him.

Rhys had just made Feyre almost snort champagne out of her nose. Everything was splendid.

They were discussing Rhys’ journeys across Europe and Asia with his brothers. A blackhole of bad decisions and regret that made excellent stories.

“It was mostly when I was young, we all took a year off after Uni,” Rhys replied, as he took his final bite of his salmon.

“Where is the most beautiful place you’ve visited?” Feyre asked.

“Pakistan,” he said, his eyes going a bit distant as he said so. “Though, I am inclined to be biased considering my mother originates from there.”

Feyre’s eyes glittered as she said cautiously, “Does she still live there?”

“No, not anymore. She moved here with her family when she was a teen, settled in Birmingham. I would like to take her back…” he trailed off, his eyes flickering to a space between Feyre and himself.

Lucien did not think much of it, knowing how much his family meant to him. How he had little time to visit his mother in another city.t

So, he grasped Rhys’ forearm, squeezing slightly.

The food came and went, as did the conversation. Though Feyre remained oblivious, Rhys was acting off, every so often becoming distracted by the bustle around them.

Dessert came, and they ventured into territory that was not suitable for the public. Orgasmic desserts.

Feyre made a sound so scandalous as she took a bite from her soufflé that Lucien’s knee hit the table.

She looked up, embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“Don’t apologise,” said Rhys, “You’ve just successfully aroused Lucien and made eating soufflé a truly erotic sight.”

“For crying out loud Rhysand,” he exclaimed. How the dynamic was so opposite in the bedroom, where it was Lucien’s turn to fuck with Rhys’ will and sanity.

“I have to admit,” said Feyre with a laugh, twirling the flute of her glass. “When you asked me for a  _ménage á trois,”_ she dropped her voice to a whisper as she said those words, _“_ I thought you were having me on.”

Rhys chuckled into his drink. He was drinking slower than Lucien and Feyre. Much slower, almost two glasses slower.

Lucien ignored his boyfriends strange behaviour to turn to Feyre.

“I think tonight and last night are a testament to the opposite,” Lucien said, taking a bit from his own soufflé. He held back a moan.

“What are you thinking Feyre?” Rhys pried, head tilting to the side.

She paused, eyes glued to the table. “I don’t know exactly…just that I’m…”

They waited, patiently, as she found her words. Because every so often Lucien would sense her nerves, how she would wipe her hands on her trousers, a tight swallow or a shaky breath.

“I really like  _this_. You both make me feel things I have never felt before.”

_Oh Feyre, this is just the start of it._

“But I can’t help but feel nervous. Because this is new, and exciting. But also completely unknown territory.”

Rhys leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers as he said with a calmness to soothe, “Trust us, Feyre, when we tell you this. That you are the one in control here. That at any point through this entire ordeal that it isn’t right for you, you feel uncomfortable or unhappy, then there is absolutely no pressure or ill judgement on our behalves.”

Lucien took her hand over the table, pressing her knuckles to his lips gently. “Rhys is right. Your happiness and wellbeing are our priority. You do not owe us anything.”

And just like that, she eased. Another bump in the road smoothed over.

Until Feyre excused herself and Lucien was left with a fidgeting Rhysand.

“Christ, Rhys, are you feeling alright?”

He waved him off. “Yes, I’m fine.”

Lucien watched as his eyes flickered to the same spot behind him. So, Lucien finally followed that gaze.

A few tables away, sat a woman with hair unnaturally red. Her face was sour, a permanent pout. Conventionally beautiful. Completely unapproachable.

“I hope she has not taken your fucken fancy?” interrogated Lucien, turning back to his boyfriend.

“Are you mad? She is a bloody witch.”

Lucien narrowed his eyes. A mistake. Rhys sighed, looked up.

“Remember the yank that has been bothering me for the past week? Well, that’s her.”

The pieces slot together rather quickly.

“Is this why you changed the reservation? Because you knew she would be at the Ritz tonight?”

Rhys opened his mouth, closed it.  _Don’t fucking lie to me._

“Yes, I won’t lie. I knew she would be here tonight. I was advised that she would be here to meet some potential shareholders. And so far, they are very late.”

“For crying out loud, Rhys. You are bringing this into our  _date_  with  _Feyre_? Couldn’t Azriel have done this?”

Heat was rising up Lucien’s neck as attempted to control his annoyance. Too often had Rhys brought Lucien to places as mundane as the park to do some sort of reconnaissance or intelligence gathering.  _Because a gay couple are a lot less conspicuous than a lone man, Lucien._

“I’m sorry, I didn’t have a choice. We need to know who this woman is willing to work with. She’s  _dangerous_ , Lucien.”

Rhys’ line of work was the type of work that was not confined to the normal working day. The type of work that required an oath of secrecy to the government. The type of work that had Rhys having a jolly with warlords and embezzlers.

“Who is she?” Lucien dared ask.

“Amarantha leads a new underground organisation,” said Rhys, voice barely a whisper.

Lucien glared. “For fuck sake,  _Rhys_.”

Rhys continued. “We think it’s weapons, she’s selling illegal, particularly chemical weapons to illegitimate regimes in the middle east. But the links aren’t clear enough; the intelligence isn’t complete. We’re trying to catch her while she’s out of the US because she is basically invincible there. The CIA have been bloody useless.”

“Does she not recognise you?” his voice was a harsh whisper. He wanted to let his boyfriend know that no matter how much he was saving the world he was still pissed.

“We’ve only spoken on the phone. Though I’m sure she has had people research me, I’m brown, she probably thinks that all coloured people look the same.”

Lucien looked to her again.  _Yeah, she looked the type to keep a confederate flag above the fireplace_.

“Also, I’m just another among many who have sought interest in shareholding. To her, I am merely another investment banker.”

Feyre appeared from the corner of the room, looking like she was focusing on putting one step in front of the other. His eyes took a lingering look at her legs. When Lucien thought she couldn’t get anymore attractive, she had to whip her legs out and have him gawking like a teenage boy.

“You alright?” asked Lucien as she sat.

“Yeah, just thinking fizz and heels don’t mix,” she said, drinking the last dregs of her flute.

Lucien went to pour some more champagne, but she placed a hand over the top of the glass.

“I’m going to stick to water.”

Rhys swore under his breath making them both look to him. His face had blanched slightly.

“Lucien, Feyre, I think we should leave,” he said quickly. “Don’t turn around.”

 _Yeah fuck that, you scheming bastard._ Lucien turned.

On the distant table of this suspected warmonger, Lucien saw his boss and his assistant seat themselves.  _They_  were the potential shareholders?

“What in the  _bloody hell_ -“

“Don’t make a scene now, Lucien,” Rhys whispered harshly.

Feyre looked between the scene and the table. “Oh Christ.”

Tamlin nor Ianthe had spotted them yet, but it was only a matter of time.

“We need to leave, quickly and quietly,” said Rhys.

Feyre looked hurt for a moment, “Why should we care what they think?”

He shared a glance with Rhys, one that said,  _should we tell our date that my boss is now a suspected collaborator with the illegal arms trade?_

“What is happening?” Feyre exclaimed.

Lucien gaped at his boyfriend.

His boyfriend rubbed at his eyes before saying, “Feyre, darling, we need to have a chat-“

He cut himself off, sitting ramrod straight. “We’ve been spotted, act natural.”

From the corner of Lucien’s eye, he managed to spot Ianthe pointing towards them and Tamlin’s gaze soon following.

Rhys let out a forced laugh, Feyre looked downright confused, and Lucien was pretty certain he was sweating.

His boss was sitting at the table with the some bitch who bathed in the blood of children. This was not the type of messy Lucien wanted to get that night.

“The bill, please,” Rhys said as he ushered the waiter.

Feyre frowned, trying to sort through the pieces but there were too many missing.

The situation looked indicative of Feyre’s insecurities. “Are you guys ashamed to be with me?

“Feyre,  _no_. Of course not. Quite the opposite, actually,” Lucien assured, taking her hand and squeezing.

Her eyes of ice blue betrayed how she most definitely did not believe him.

***

Rhys didn’t expect this to happen. What he had planned was a night of fine dining with spectacular company while he watched his target incognito. It was only a bit of reconnaissance.

Yet, out of all the potential shareholders of illegal arms, it was Tamlin, who owned a business based in fucking  _transportation_.

For years, Rhysand had collaborated in the downfall of supposedly invincible war criminals with the help of his inner circle, and never did he think Tamlin would be on that list. But for now, he was an investment banker, looking to spend some to gain more, even if money was painted red.

Lucien was speaking to Feyre in hushed tones before him. He kicked himself, he didn’t want Feyre thinking any less of herself because of her obliviousness to the situation.

When they told her the truth, she would have to sit in a private area with an oath of secrecy before her. Definitely not out in the open, metres away from prying ears.

And now, Tamlin and Ianthe no doubt disclosed Rhys’ identity to Amarantha. She caught his gaze in the distance, a smile of serpents forming on her face.

She beckoned him over.

“Lucien, I need you to take Feyre and leave,” he asked quietly.

Lucien looked as if he would protest but noted how Rhys pleaded with his eyes.

And so he relented.

Before they left, the table before them still laden with their unfinished desserts, Rhys placed a lingering kiss to Feyre’s knuckles. Then her cheek.

His voice was low as he said into her ear, “You are extraordinary, Feyre darling.”

Her eyes glimmered in confusion as she turned her head, their lips tantalising close.

“I won’t be long,” he murmured. He bloody well hoped not. He didn’t have any plans to murder tonight.

He turned to kiss his boyfriends cheek. As he pulled away, Lucien muttered, “I’m still pissed at you.”

And with that they left, hand in hand.

Before Rhys set off to Amarantha’s table, he put on his mask, mentally securing it in place.

As he approached, Tamlin looked immensely pained. Ianthe still looked like she ate innocent men for breakfast.

“And you must be Amarantha,” he greeted. “A pleasure to meet you in person.” He took her hand, though it physically repulsed him to do so, and pressed a short kiss to it.

“Ah, Rhysand. Apologies for not recognising you sooner. You sounded British on the phone.”

He forced a smile. “I am British.”

“Yes, I guess you could say that. Please, sit.”

Sitting at a table with an overt racist, ah, Rhys was in for a fucking treat.

He took his place between Amarantha and Ianthe, Tamlin across from him. It was only then did he notice the table in the far corner of men looking too out of place to be here for pleasure. She had brought her posse, then.

“Tamlin,” Rhys greeted. “Ianthe.”

“So bedding one of my employees is not enough for you?” Tamlin taunted.

“Lucien and I have been in an established relationship for two years, Tamlin.”

His mouth frowned in disgust. “If Lucien weren’t such a good vice, he would have been out the door a long time ago.”

Lovely, racists and homophobes, Rhys’ daily enemies.

“I’ll be sure to let him know of your high esteem for my boyfriend,” Rhys deadpanned.

Before Tamlin could respond, Ianthe intercepted. “How is it that you know Amarantha, Rhysand?”

“I have an interest in her business endeavours.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I am intrigued to know of your acquaintance.”

There was a pregnant pause before Amarantha leaned back in her chair, flute in hand as she surveyed the table before her. “Tamlin is looking to expand financially.”

_What in seven hells does a transportation business want or need with blood money._

“I find it strange how you have not consulted with your vice, Tamlin.”

Tamlin snarled. “Because it has nothing to do with the Spring Court. This is a personal endeavour.”

This bastard was asking to be locked up.

Amarantha commanded the conversation elsewhere. Tamlin remained silent as Rhys tried his best to go along with her trivial chatter. Rhys knew that she was smart of enough to not disclose any details of potential deals in the middle of the Ritz, that or he had yet to gain her trust. Which was most likely the case. For now, he would let her feel him out while he sharpened his talons. He needed to call Mor promptly, instruct Az to research any potential dealings of Tamlin’s outside of the Spring Court.

“I must go, leave you to your business,” he finally announced after what seemed like a lifetime.

“Yes, go be with your…company. I will call you at some point, Rhysand.” Her smile was almost sinister.

He shook of from her predatory gaze. “Ianthe, Tamlin. I bid farewell.”

Before they responded he sauntered from the room, in desperate need for some fresh air. It hit him then of the potential collateral damage towards Lucien, if Tamlin continued to dive into the underworld without ration.

He needed to get home, but first, he visited Mor.

***

Feyre was aware of every place that Lucien touched her. In the car ride back, the heat of his hand burned through her knee. How they moved to her waist as they walked into his building. The brush of his fingers down her face as the lift doors closed.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “This wasn’t how I wanted this night to go.”

They were the same height when she wore these heels.

She shook her head, “Rhys has important things to do, I understand.”

When Feyre had googled him that day and found out he was an investment banker, it had explained the riches that Rhys possessed, and he wasn’t even 30. Though it did not really explain the bizarre end to their evening at the Ritz, why Lucien was pissed at his boyfriend.

Lucien’s eyes bore into hers and she shivered from the heat of it.

“I think we should steal one of Rhys’ most expensive bottle of champagne,” he said.

“A scandalous plan. I’m in.”

Lucien’s kisses were like fire. He took the oxygen from her as quick as she could take it in. Consuming and wild. Fast, hot and hard. Her back had already hit the wall of the lift and his hands were already mapping the contours of her body.

Such a stark difference to the soft, languid, smoke of Rhys’ kisses. Where Rhys gave, Lucien took.

And the fire spread.

Her hands were in his hair, tugging so his braid fell out. He only pressed into her harder, moulding her body to his that had her gasping.

“Lucien,” she managed to say.

They had arrived at their floor and Lucien said nothing, just tugged her by the hand. She could barely walk, her legs were like jelly and everything was hot to touch.

Their flat was still beautiful and grand. Lucien closed the door behind them with a gentle click.

She walked into the living room, desperate to take off her shoes. So she sat at the sofa, reaching down to tug at the clasps. But Lucien had already beaten her to it, kneeling on one knee in front of her and as her shoes slid off and she breathed a sigh of relief, especially when Lucien’s hand stroked up her leg to reach her knee.

“You alright?” he said, a bit breathless, like their kiss had knocked the wind out of him.

“Yes,” she said, a bit breathless, the kiss had most definitely knocked the wind out of her.

She stared at him, the way his eyes were like burning embers and his hair loose and wavy. He had taken off his suit jacket, leaving his shirt hugging at his arms and chest. At work, he would always roll his sleeves up. She spent a lot of time glancing at his forearms.

Still knelt before her, she tugged at his arms, undoing the cufflinks and pushing up his sleeves.

“What are you doing?”

“I really like your arms,” she found herself saying. Or was it the champagne that was saying that?

He huffed a laugh. “How drunk are you Feyre Archeron? You haven’t had any more than me.”

“I’m not drunk,” she scrunched up her nose. Sure, she could feel the alcohol in her veins. But she was in control, aware of her actions, admiring his arms.

“I believe you.”

“I want you to kiss me again,” she whispered, like it was a secret.

“Anything else, love?”

She blinked. She liked that.

“Keep calling me that.”

He grinned. “What else?”

“I want Rhys here.”

He frowned. “Me too.”

“I want you to stop frowning.”

His frown dissipated. He still knelt at the floor before her, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the inside of her knee.

Her thighs spread slightly, though her dress constricted. The hand on her knee froze.

“ _Feyre_.”

His eyes had darkened.

“Tell me what it’s like,” she commanded.

“Having two people worship you?”

She nodded, a bit drunk on the timber of his voice.

“Rhys is better at words in describing such an affair,” he said, though he leaned his head down to press a kiss to her knee. “it would be better to show you when he comes home.”

“Tell me what it’s like to be fucked by you, then.”

Her heart pounded as he stilled. She didn’t know where those words came from, probably the demon in the back of her head that had been begging for her to get laid.

He lifted his head and her hand darted out to brush some hair out of his face.

“What do you think it would be like?” he asked.

“I think you like it rough. You like control.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” She swallowed, watched as Lucien’s eyes flickered to her throat. “Your work life can be hectic. No doubt that you try and find control in the bedroom.”

“Hmm.”

“I bet Rhys likes it slow, soft. But he likes to relent control to you. That power he holds in the day, he likes to give to you, at night.”

Lucien cocked his head. “You seem pretty confident in your assertions.”

“I’m a good observer.” Their kisses told her everything. Where Lucien would grip, Rhys would stroke. It was enough to keep her awake with psychological analysis at ridiculous times in the morning.

His hands squeezed at her knees slightly.

“I want to think that I am up for anything,” she found herself saying. “But I’m scared that there are some things I won’t be able to do.”

It was the second time that night she had voiced her concerns. And she felt silly. But then she reassured herself that she was rational, she knew Lucien nor Rhys would like it if she held back her worries.

She felt Lucien’s gaze burn into her skin. She concentrated on the heat of his hands.

“We will never take what you don’t want to give, Feyre,” he said. “You choose. Everything. We won’t do anything without putting it past you first.”

He stood, pulling her up with him. “Is this because of that bloody sex dungeon joke?”

She laughed. He was taller now. “No, it isn’t. But this is all so unknown to me. I just feel a bit out of my depth.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her to him. “We’ll work our way up.”

“I trust you,” she murmured before kissing him again.

***

When Rhys slipped through the door, intrigued of what his lover and prospective lover were getting up to, he did not expect to find what he did.

They were playing cards round the coffee table, passing a bottle of champagne between them.

“I’m so sorry,” he ushered out, sauntering into the living space while loosening his tie. “I made a stupid call in going the Ritz. We should have just gone Marcus’ because-“

He paused, looking between them. “Is that my bottle of Grande Cuvée?”

Lucien glared up at him from where he was sat crossed legged on the plush rug. His shirt sleeves rolled up, tie off, top buttons undone, hair a wild mess of waves. Quite frankly he looked like sex but Rhys brushed it aside.

“Oh this? I just found it in the  _fancy_ fancy part of the wine cellar.” His boyfriend took a long swig from the bottle for extra measure.

“That is a bloody £1000 bottle of champa-“ Rhys cleared his throat as Lucien raised a brow.

Okay, he deserved this. He brought work into leisure once again and it backfired. He. Deserved. It.

“I’m still mourning over my unfinished soufflé,” sighed Feyre. His head snapped to her. She too, looked as if she was enjoying in the participation of his torture. Her hair was a mess of loose curls. He traced his eyes to the strap of her dress that had fallen down her shoulder. Her legs looked impossibly longer as she had hitched up the hem to allow her to sit better.

He swallowed deeply.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. He had it all planned. His intention was to return home and warn Lucien about Tamlin and tell Feyre about everything, but the words died on the tip of his tongue. Mor almost slapped him when he told her that he had left his boyfriend and their date alone so he could work.

“It’s okay, Rhys,” said Feyre. She pushed herself up from the floor, standing on swaying legs.

“How much have you two drank?”

Lucien hiccupped.

“You,” Feyre slurred, shoving the bottle in his hands. It was a lot lighter than it should have been. “Need to catch up, mister Bond.”

“What-“

“I told her that you are like James Bond,” explained Lucien, flopping down onto the carpet.

“I know all about your dealings with taking down evil people,” she said, pressing herself against him. Rhys let his arm wrap around her waist, terrified that she would pass out at any moment. She rested her head on his shoulder as she looked up at him through her lashes.

Pressing a finger to her lips, she whispered, “I won’t tell anybody.”

He definitely wouldn’t be able to let her leave now without signing something. Though he could hardly find it in himself to be annoyed. Rhys trusted her.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

She leaned up on her tip toes, and before Rhys could move, she pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. It was innocent kiss, one that had him lean down for a second one. Just a simple, soft brush of the lips.

She smiled softly. “I forgive you for the soufflé.”

“Good, wouldn’t want any bad blood.”

“I’m still pissed at you,” slurred Lucien from where he lay. “ _No Lucien, Marcus’ is too boring. The Ritz has circular tables._  Fucking bullshit.”

Rhys tried not to laugh.

“I will make it up to you, babe.”

“Through sex!” Feyre gasped.

“I prefer my lovers sober, thank you for the suggestion though, darling.”

“Pity.” Her grumble rumbled through his shoulder. “I put on my best pair of fuck me pants for you two.”

“You must show them us another time.”

Feyre pressed another kiss to his lips and he smiled at the cheekiness on her face as if she had just stolen the taste off them. She flounced away, falling to the floor besides Lucien. Rhys did get a pretty decent view of the so called  _fuck me pants_  as she did so, her dress riding up even further.

He himself, had definitely wanted the night to end differently. Though, this ending was not bad at all. Grabbing a blanket, Rhys found himself on the plush rug beside his lovers. Lucien was already dozing. He took his place beside Lucien, pressing close. Feyre was watching him from where she lay her head on Lucien’s shoulder.

It was an effort to drape the blanket over the length of all of them, but he managed. Feyre had giggled uncontrollably as Lucien let out a snore.

He couldn’t quite believe he was spending the night sleeping on a fucking rug.

Just as he was closing his eyes, there was a whisper.

“Rhys?”

“Mmm?”

“Will you take me to the Ritz to get soufflé?”

“I will take you anywhere, Feyre.”


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: constant incessant touching, daytime tv, unwanted visits, inappropriate things said in inappropriate places

Feyre did not want to open her eyes, she was  _that_  comfortable.

It was like the relief she felt every Saturday morning, not waking up to an obnoxious alarm, snuggling deeper into her duvet with a few more hours to kill in her bed.

Except she was not in her bed.

She opened her eyes, panic rising slightly.

Around her was not her own bedroom, but the vast space of Rhys and Lucien’s living room. She was on the sofa, wrapped up in a fluffy blanket.

Sitting up slowly, the decisions of last night settled that distinctively far too familiar weight in her bones. Her mouth was parched, and the threat of nausea loomed.

 _Oh fuck_.

The kitchen which was empty. In fact, as she scanned the large living space, Rhys and Lucien were nowhere to be found. It unsettled her that the flat was unearthly still.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to remember how last night had ended. Lucien and her definitely shared some of that ridiculously expensive champagne after a particularly long make out on the very sofa she now lay on. They had played cards to distract themselves as their hands grew more adventurous. She remembered his glare as she won too many rounds. Rhysand had come back at some point, god knows when.

Her lips tingled in memory.

As she stood, her dress had ridden up embarrassingly high, revealing her rather risqué red underwear. She managed to tug it down in record speed. There was no one there, but her cheeks grew hot at the thought if someone was.

Beneath her toes was the soft rug that had brushed against her thighs as she fell asleep basically on top of Lucien.

 _How she had fallen asleep basically on top of Lucien_.

Then there was the entire bombshell that Rhys was more than an investment banker, not that she was surprised. More nervous than anything. That in itself made her temples pulse.

There was some water and paracetamol left on the coffee table with a note in scrawling cursive:

_Gone to get breakfast_

_Caution: Lucien’s terribly grumpy so he’s gone to take a shower, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he has collapsed into bed to sulk_

_Rhys x_

Rhys seemed to be an avid note leaver.

After finding the downstairs bathroom and relieving herself, Feyre decided to take the chance of looking into the mirror, where she found smudged makeup and tangled hair.

“Tragic,” she said.  

By the time she had managed to scrub some of it off and tease her hair through her fingers, she tentatively exited the bathroom. Only to find Rhys now in the kitchen humming to himself.

“Feyre!” he exclaimed, eyes lightening as she stood awkwardly at the entrance.

He looked beautiful, definitely not like he had been hit by train like herself. He wore a simple deep purple jumper and some black trousers that complimented his backside spectacularly. She averted her eyes quickly, though she was certain he caught her by the way he smiled to himself.

“Hi,” she said.

“I hope you slept well, considering we were basically on the floor for the entire night.”

He was organising a continental breakfast that he had evidently just bought, the smell making her stomach rumble.

“Why on earth did we do that?” Her shoulder ached at the thought. At of all the comfortable surfaces in this goddamned flat they had somehow ended up on the floor.

He smiled as he threw some croissants onto a plate. “I know. Terrible idea really. I moved you up to the sofa when I woke up. I hope that was ok.”

She moved closer to wear he stood at the island, a smile forming on her own face though it was tinged with embarrassment.

She hoped he hadn’t seen her with her fucking pants out.

“It was quite a nice show I must admit,” he said with a wink.

She gaped at him, realising that her mouth had ran on its own accord.

“Oh fair maiden,” he gasped, taking her hand and tugging her towards him. “I pray that I have not embarrassed thee.”

“ _Rhys,_ ” she groaned as she covered her face.

He pulled her against him anyway, hands moving up and down her arms. “Red suits you, darling.”

She slapped his chest.

“I’m kidding,” he laughed, taking her assaulting hand and kissing her palm, “I averted my eyes like a true gentleman.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, attempting to reign in her fluster.

“I hope you like continental,” Rhys said, changing the subject. His hands took hers absently. It was oddly endearing. “Lucien would have made breakfast if he weren’t so grumpy when he is hungover.”

“You can’t talk, you’re terrible on a sober morning,” Lucien said, announcing his arrival as he padded through the kitchen. His hair was damp, wetting the t-shirt around his collar. The bags under his eyes slightly pronounced.

He stopped and looked at her with a smile. “You’re awake.”

“Yeah,” she replied. “More alive than you are, it seems.”

“Finally got your head out of the toilet, babe?” Rhys teased.

Lucien threw him two fingers. He then looked to Feyre, approaching slowly.

“You’re still in your dress,” he observed, his hand connected with her shoulder, and it glided down her arm. What was it with their damned hands?

“It seems that way.”

“Do you want to change and clean up?” asked Rhys, “We have spare toothbrushes. And I’m sure you could borrow some of our clothes.”

She turned back to Rhys, “Yes, please.”

Food could wait. She felt too strange in this dress. Too overdressed for a hangover continental breakfast.

“I will take you upstairs, come on,” said Lucien, he held out his hand.

She looked to Rhys who just watched her with a smirk. He winked, reaching up to brush some hair from her face. She swore sparks came from his fingers they skimmed her cheek.

_Damn these two._

“Don’t worry, I will keep the croissants warm.”

Feyre took his hand.

***

Lucien emerged back downstairs after giving Feyre some of his own clothes considering Rhys was another size bigger than himself. She had looked so adorable as she stood there in his bedroom, leaving lingering glances at the bed as if it would jump out and swallow her whole. Lucien was ashamed to say it turned him on a bit.

“She okay?” asked Rhys, who had sat at a stool at the island, scrolling through emails on his phone.

“Yeah, considering how much we drank. Well, I definitely think I may have drank a bit more through forfeit. She beat me at cards quite brutally.”

Lucien wrapped his arms around Rhys, pressing into his back and leaning over his shoulder to kiss his cheek. Rhys grunted.

“Yes. Considering you drank one of my most expensive bottles, she seems to be faring a lot better than you.”

Lucien glared into the side of Rhys’ face. “And why was that? Oh right, because you ruined the end of our date.”

Rhys placed his phone down and turned in Luciens arms, taking his hands and pulling Lucien to stand between his legs.

Instead of apologising, which Rhys had done a lot that morning, he asked quietly, “When doing the accounts for the Spring Court, have you ever seen any…exchanges, that seem out of place?”

Right. His boss was potentially an arms dealer in the making. The champagne had helped to distract from that dilemma last night. And Feyre.

Lucien sighed, looked down at his boyfriend, squeezed his hands. “I have to admit. I haven’t. There has been no change in our usual inward and outward remittance. But I haven’t been looking for anything suspicious.”

Rhys nodded, frowning slightly. “Azriel said he’d take a look, but we need you to send some things to speed things up, like numbers. Payments, inward and outward. Partnerships and investments.”

The thought had Lucien feel funny. If there was a discrepancy, would he have noticed it? The accounts showed no indication that it was anything other than financially sound. Nor had Tamlin not disclosed any new big investments other than the expansion plans. Yet this was serious. And if there were links, everything Lucien had worked for could be in jeopardy.

“Okay.”

Rhys pressed a kiss to Lucien’s knuckles.

“How dangerous is she, Rhys?”

Rhys hesitated, “Very. Enough that I need to discuss some things with Feyre. Enough that if she becomes more closely associated with me, then I need her to sign some things, so we can protect her, like you had to.”

“What things do you need me to sign?”

They both turned their heads to find Feyre at the threshold of the kitchen, wearing one Lucien’s t-shirts that she had tucked into some of his pyjama bottoms. She had used one of his hair bands to tie her hair up and her face was freshly cleansed. It was the first time he had ever seen her like this and quite frankly, Lucien almost melted at the domesticity of it all. And shit, he really fucking liked her in his clothes. Now Lucien realised why Rhys had that stupid adorable smirk on his face when Lucien  _accidentally_  found himself in his boyfriend’s t-shirts.

She held her hands up, “Considering Lucien drunkenly told me you’re some sexy MI6 agent who works undercover in the underworld to take down criminal warlords, I’m expecting some sort of disclosure agreement.”

“I’m more closely associated with MI5,” Rhys said with a wink, standing. “But you’ve got the gist.”

Lucien rolled his eyes.

“Actually, Feyre, there’s a lot of things I have to talk to you about. About your safety and your secrecy,” Rhys moved towards her shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Okay, but can we do it over breakfast? I’m famished.”

Lucien’s stomach rumbled its agreement.

***

After breakfast, and much discussion over what walking upon this world of theirs would entail, they sat together on the sofa watching shitty daytime TV.

As she sat between the two of them, her mind mulled over their words. How Rhys had told her the potential dangers of being involved with them. How he had given her an out there and then. How she had forcefully declined.

She couldn’t imagine walking out of their lives now. She felt a knife twist in her gut at the thought.

The piece of life that they had both offered to her was adventure and excitement. Her previous relationships had been short and mainly casual. Boring. Frustrating. Unfulfilling. She had never  _cared_  for someone like she cared for them. She had never felt her skin  _burn_.

Lucien was dosing beside her, attempting to sleep off his hangover. His head rested rather close next to hers.

Rhys sat to her other side, seemingly engrossed in the Come Dine with Me rerun.

She was content just stealing the heat from their bodies, until she heard a phone ring, Lucien jolting from his near slumber.

It was her own phone to her annoyance, she mentally cursed it for bursting the bubble that they had made.

Her heart dropped as she saw the caller.

“Oh fuck.”

“Who is it?” asked Rhys.

“My sister,” she gritted out.

Nesta rarely called, it was always Feyre making the effort with her elder sister. Elain on the other hand was more eager to keep up mutual communication. When Nesta called, it was usually something serious.

She gave Rhys an apologetic glance as she ushered off to the downstairs bathroom, clicking the door closed behind her before she answered warily.

“Hello, Nesta.”

“Where the hell are you?”

Feyre paused, slightly shocked at the concern in her tone.

“With…friends. Why?”

“Because we’re supposed to meet for lunch!”

Her heart dropped. Feyre slumped against the wall. Raking her mind for how she could possibly forget something like this until suddenly she remembered the sticky note she placed on the fridge hastily a few weeks earlier.

_15/Oct – Lunch with sisters at 1:00._

She let out an internal sigh.

“I’m sorry, I-I must have forgotten.”

“You’re joking.” Feyre cringed, awaiting the onslaught of Nesta’s wrath. “I can’t believe you, Feyre. We have had this organised for weeks! Elain and I have driven 3 and half hours to see y-“

The phone was snatched away.

“Feyre, hey,” said Elain, forever the mediator. “Nesta’s just pissy because the traffic was bad. You’re still coming to meet us?”

She may as well have been right in front of Feyre, looking up at her younger sister with those doe eyes of hers that made her their parents favourite.

Feyre looked down at what she was wearing. “Yeah, yes. Of course,” she said reluctantly, the guilt consuming her. “I just need to go home first.”

The thought of leaving her little haven that she had made with Rhys and Lucien was like a punch in the gut.

It was in that moment that dread truly settled in. It was unfortunate that Feyre had never really gotten on with her sisters. Nesta and Elain were inseparable, with only a year between them. Feyre on the other hand was the lone wolf, always too young to be part of their duo.

Upon ending the call, Feyre took a deep breath. Definitely not how she planned that afternoon. The choice between a slightly awkward lunch with her sisters or cuddling with two men that she had kinky sex dreams about while watching daytime TV should have been an easy call. Yet, this was her fault, she had failed to remember and now she had to explain to both parties where she was and would be going.

 _Fuck_.

After explaining the situation to Rhys and Lucien, the former jumping up to offer a lift back and the latter failing to mask his disappointment, Feyre had to change back into last nights clothes. At least the coat she wore was long enough to distract her sisters from any overt clues where she was.  

She stood in the hallway, Lucien brushing his thumb over her knuckles as they waited for Rhys.

“Come back later if you want, I will make us dinner?” he suggested.

“Another night without having to cook? You would think I were being spoiled.”

“Our company is quite favourable, though Lucien can get quite clingy at times,” said Rhys, approaching with a glint his eye and a devilish smile.

Lucien gave a stale stare to his boyfriend as Feyre laughed.

“Okay,” she said with a smile. “I will be back later.”

***

Rhys’ hand in hers was an exhilarating experience. As he took her down to the garage, his thumb would brush against her skin in a gentle rhythm as he talked of trivial things. Rhys had a strange effect on her. He simultaneously excited and calmed her. Her body didn’t quite know what to do around him.  

His hands were calloused, his skin rougher than Lucien’s. A sharp juxtaposition to his demeanour.

And for a moment, her heart stopped.

She wondered whether he had ever killed.

It was a fleeting thought. But she decided not to dwell on such a theory just yet.

The garage was a reflection of the wealthy inhabitants that lived above. Mercedes and BMWs. Ferraris and Jaguars.

Rhys took her to an Aston Martin that definitely fit his aesthetic.

She whistled, “Very James Bond.”

As they drove out, Feyre admired the interior, theorising all the spy stuff he could do in here. It was still quite a surreal prospect of whom she was dating. She was waiting for someone to shout  _cut_  at any given moment.

“If I press this button, will a missile shoot out?” she asked pointing to a random button on the dashboard.

“No, but it will turn the seat heaters on.”

Her fingers traced over the other buttons. “If I press this one will it eject me out of the car?”

“Nah,” he said, “but the car will self-destruct.”

She gaped at him.

He flashed her a grin.

“Bastard.”

Never had she sat inside something quite so lavish. Rhys’ life seemed to reveal a new level of wealth at every turn.

They grew closer to her flat, and her mind was sorting through any possible excuse of what she could say to her sisters than didn’t insinuate a one night stand or being taken on a date by two men and staying round their fancy flat because she got too drunk on a thousand pound bottle of champagne.  

“Darling, are you okay?”

Rhys was looking over at her as they stopped in traffic. His hand rested on her knee, his eyes concerned.

“That button doesn’t really make the car self-destruct,” he said seriously.

She broke out into a laugh. “No, no.” Her mind zoned in on where his hand rested momentarily. “I was just thinking about what the hell I’m going to say to my sisters.”

He relaxed. “What are you worried about?”

She considered. Quite frankly, she didn’t quite know.

Maybe it was the simple reason of the inevitable question that Feyre would face, where she was to forget their lunch date.

A simply lie could cut it, but Nesta had a sixth sense for these things. Always tattling on their parents when Feyre did her best to fib about a broken vase, or a subpar school report.

She then thought of how they would react to Feyre’s current polyamorous love affair.

Nesta was a traditionalist. Married her boyfriend from University by 22, had a child by 26, worked part time in publishing. Elain was more open minded, though she would be inevitably confused. She too was already married and only announced her second pregnancy two months ago. Their mindset was only ever the white middle class even though at some point in their childhood, Feyre was depending on free school meals and the local food bank.  

Now, married off to two wealthy husbands (who happened to be pompous twits but Feyre held her tongue on all, well most, occasions), living in posh post codes and undoubtedly voting Tory, she couldn’t help but doubt their outright acceptance and understanding.

“My sisters and I aren’t really close,” she said eventually. “It can sometimes get petty and awkward.”

“Do you want to be closer to them?”

“Maybe, yeah.” She pressed her nails into her palm. “The distance makes it a bit difficult. And work. And their husbands.”

Rhys glanced at her quizzically. “Their husbands?”

_Sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut Feyre._

“I may or may not have gotten trashed at Nesta’s wedding and slept with the best man.”

At 19, Feyre had took advantage of the open bar. It was a decision based on spite when the best man took a fancy to her. The new bride and groom hadn’t been too pleased. Feyre’s mother had been particularly furious. It was talked about for quite some time. There had been a strained relationship with Thomas ever since.

“Scandalous,” Rhys gasped dramatically. “And what did you do to piss off the other husband?”

“…I got trashed at Elain’s wedding and slept with the best man.”

Rhys snorted. And the sound had her bursting into a laugh alongside him.

“You truly are incredible, Feyre darling.”

That was a particular point of turmoil in her family. Nesta hadn’t spoken to her for months after her wedding. Elain on the other hand had laughed it off, though Feyre could tell she was disappointed. There seemed to be a strand in Feyre’s body that thrived on gaining her families attention for all the wrong reasons. Maybe because that was what she was used to.

They arrived at her flat too soon.

Rhys pressed her kiss to her knuckles, but that wasn’t enough for Feyre. Perhaps to garner a bit of luck and confidence, she leaned over the console and brought their mouths together.

And somehow, an intended peck transcended into a hot, heavy, open mouthed kiss.  

The hand round the back of her neck tightened as his tongue slid seamlessly into her mouth. A breathy moan escaped her as her hand found its way into his hair.

It was passion and promise of what that mouth could do.

Their lips were wet as they withdrew slightly.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

“Yeah,” he said. No snarky comment, not a smirk or sly grin. For once, he seemed like words were at a loss for him.  He pressed another kiss to the corner of her mouth. To her jaw. His fingertips brushed against her throat.

“ _Rhys._ ”

“Hmm?”

“I do need to go.” His hand fell to her knee again, sliding its way up the fabric of her dress slightly.

“I can’t quite remember why.”

“My sisters.”

His eyes of midnight pierced into hers. They were still alight from the heat of their kiss.

“Shame,” he murmured. His thumb brushed against her the skin of her thigh.

She shuddered. Rhys looked delighted.

“Oh the things we have planned for you, Feyre Archeron.”

She ached all over.

“Like what?”

His hand moved further up her thigh, her legs parting slightly. He noticed the movement, his eyes flickering down as his lips curved into something dark and wicked.

“Like-“

A sound pounded behind her and she snapped back from his touch, her heart in her mouth as she turned to find the source of the incessant window banging.

To her horror, it was her eldest sister glaring down at her.

***

It was worse than she expected.

They sat in a Costa, on the street opposite, where Nesta and Elain had been waiting when they saw Feyre and some mysterious guy make out in his flashy car.

If death had come for her the moment Nesta told her to get out the car, she would have accepted it.

She said a sheepish goodbye to Rhys, who she didn’t dare to look at for any longer and followed her sister’s orders. Nesta had glared, told her that Elain and she had been waiting for over forty-five minutes for Feyre’s arrival, and walked off back over the road to where Elain was awkwardly sitting at a table.

She had joined them, not even daring to go back to her flat to get dressed. Her heels pinched at her feet.

“I’m so sorry,” she muttered.

“Yeah. You bloody should be.”

 _“Nesta_ ,” Elain pleaded.

“We’ve come down to this shitty overpriced city,  _for you_. Driven three and a half hours,  _for you_. I have a three-year-old, if you so recall. Thomas is fucking useless on his own.”

“I completely forgot-“

“Because you were too busy warming some rich dudes bed? Too busy getting fingered in his bloody Aston Martin to go see your sisters?” she whispered harshly.

Feyre flushed red. “I wasn’t  _getting fucking fingered-“_

“I saw where his hand was, Feyre,” she scoffed. “You’re twenty-five. Get some damn respect.”

Shame drenched her skin. It became increasingly difficult to swallow.

“ _Nesta,_ ” exclaimed Elain. The middle sister took Feyre’s hand over the table. Feyre cringed at the clamminess of her own hand, but Elain squeezed it.

“We didn’t come here to fight,” she mediated, shooting a glare towards Nesta. “We came here to catch up. We’re all here now.”

Feyre released a breath. Nesta relented, sitting back in her chair with her arms tightly crossed. Elain’s smile turned from sweet to sinister.

“So, who’s the new guy, ey?”

_Sorry, Lucien. But you’re going to have to stay out of the equation for the moment._

“His name is Rhysand…”  _and he takes down crime lords_ “…I like him a lot.”

Elain squealed. “He was  _gorgeous_. No wonder you didn’t want to come see us.”

“Yes, no wonder,” repeated Nesta, her face like stone.

“Oh, brighten up Nesta. This may be an actual relationship,  _for once_.”

Feyre was taken aback. “What is that supposed to mean?”

At least Elain had the nerve to look a bit flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry. You know I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… you’ve always shied away from relationships.”

In Elain’s eyes, Feyre saw that familiar disappointment.

“I’ve had relationships,” Feyre muttered, looking away from her elder sisters gaze.

“But not  _relationships_. You’ve never even fallen in love, Feyre and you’re 25! Maybe this might be the guy you finally settle down with, get married and have kids with.”

There it was. The stark difference between their worlds and her own. Marriage and children had never bothered Feyre, in fact she dreaded the thought. The thought of tying herself down to such a way of life was unappealing to her. Her sisters really didn’t understand her at all. A polarisation that persisted from childhood.

“I don’t want to get married and have kids,” said Feyre. “I want fun.”

“Oh grow the hell up, Feyre,” Nesta interjected, her face souring. “This is exactly what mum keeps going on about. You can’t just keep going about having casual sex for the rest of your life.”

Nesta had never let go of the bloody wedding façade.

Being attacked over her life choices was nothing new for Feyre. Yet, as she sat there, taking the look of distaste from her older sister, unwanted pity from her middle sister and her mothers constant shadow, Feyre started to feel herself get a little racked off.

“So what if I choose to have casual sex?” she said, a little too loudly. A few heads turned but Feyre was too pissed to care.

Elain squirmed. “Feyre, you know we don’t care about that… You can do what you want. I think Nesta’s just trying to say that you need to be practical.”

Elain, however, continued, like she wasn’t insulting her younger sister and all her life choices. “We all just think you need to grow out of the rebellious teenage phase. But this guy looks like we could be on to a winner!”

The condescension made her stomach flip. Elain was completely oblivious to what she said at times, forever shielded from criticism and the brutality of the real world. Nesta continued to sip at her tea with the familiar stare of judgement. And it made her want to flip the fucking table. Throughout her life, everything that Feyre seemed to do was an act of rebellion in her family’s eyes. And so, she might as well play the part.

“Actually,” said Feyre, her smile turning sickly sweet. “You’re right. I really like this guy. Him and his boyfriend.”

Nesta choked on her tea.

Elain gaped. “His  _what_?”

“Oh just, the guy I’m dating. Rich guy Rhys. The one that Nesta so rudely interrupted fingering me. That guy Rhys. I happen to be dating Rich guy Rhys’ boyfriend, too. Lucien.”

“Haha, very funny, Feyre,” Elain said nervously.

Feyre leaned forward, clasping her hands on the table. “No, seriously. Lucien, who happens to be my colleague, asked  _me_  for a threesome with him and his boyfriend,  _Rich guy Rhys_. And I said yes.”

“Feyre-“

Her eldest sister was abruptly cut off as Feyre placed her head on her hand, looking into the distance dreamily. “They are  _freaks_  in the sheets, let me tell you.”

She didn’t know quite what she was doing, only that it felt good to see the shock on their faces, the slight disgust especially on Nesta’s. Because if she was to be thought of as the disappointment child, she may as well have a bit of fun with it.

“Lucien has the girth, Rhys has the length,” again, guesswork, “I don’t think I’ve orgasmed so much in my life.”

“Feyre, _for Pete’s sake_ ,” Nesta snapped. “You have no shame.”

A few heads had turned, two women looked over in amusement.

“Get it girl,” said one.

Feyre lifted her cup, “Cheers.”

“If you’re taking the piss, bloody stop it,” Nesta said, her voice low and deathly. “We want what’s best for you. But you’re so  _childish_.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” Feyre said, bracing her arms on the table. “I thought I would dabble in some polyamory, spice it up, you know.”

“Feyre please, stop it,” begged Elain, placing her head in her hands.

“It’s always my blooming fault, isn’t it?”

“Maybe if you weren’t such a sl-“ Nesta cut her self off, like she was too ashamed to voice what she had no doubt thought all along.

“Which one is it, Nesta?” asked Feyre. She felt hurt. It had been two minutes in and civility was out the window. “Slag? Slut? Ask Thomas for his pretty adventurous vocabulary that he likes to use on me if you’re looking for a bit of diversity.”

“ _Stop it_ ,” said Elain, turning on her parent voice.

Feyre wiped away an angry tear, turning to look out the window. It was a nice day. Spoiled.

“I didn’t want this,” Elain continued. “Listen Feyre, I apologise. I was insensitive. I shouldn’t expect you to be like us, that’s not fair of us to do so.”

Even though it was an apology, Feyre still felt it was backhanded.

Nesta remained silent, looking intently at her tea.

“We didn’t come here to fight. We actually needed to tell you a few things. Important things.”

Feyre bit her lip. “Okay.”

Elain looked to their older sister. “Nesta…”

“Thomas and I are getting divorced.” The words were slow, mechanically pulled from her lips.

It was only then did Feyre notice that Nesta wasn’t wearing her rings.

“Oh,” Feyre said. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she snapped back. Feyre didn’t flinch.

It was difficult to find what to say. Considering Nesta was difficult enough to talk to when there wasn’t a blackened cloud looming over her head, it felt like whatever Feyre could possibly say would be taken badly.

Feyre turned to Elain, pleading slightly to diffuse the situation.

“Nesta will be fighting for full custody of Alice,” Elain said.

 _Full custody?_  Feyre knew Thomas was a shit dad, but she didn’t think he was  _that_  bad.

“What did he do, Nesta?”

Nesta finally looked to her youngest sister. Feyre swore she saw the flash of pain in her eyes.

“Enough,” she said eventually. And that was the decided end of that matter.

Elain bit her lip, looking worriedly at her older sister before turning back to Feyre.

“That’s not all,” she said. “Greyson has a new job. We’re moving.”

Feyre raised her brows, “Where?”

“Wimbledon,” she said.

Suddenly, Feyre’s jaw dropped to the floor.  _She was moving to London._

“It seems like we will be seeing a lot more of one another,” Elain smiled.

“W-What about Nesta?”

“ _I_ ,” said Nesta, “Will also be moving to this shit city. I think it would be best for a fresh start.”

Three years prior, both sisters had looked at Feyre funnily when she told them she was moving to London. It was the  _South_. To the  _centre._ Where you had to sell body parts for a flat that didn’t have a shower in the kitchen and everyone ate sushi. Gross.

“And I want to make sure Daisy and this little one,” she said rubbing at her slightly swollen stomach, “Will go to good schools. You know, the ones up north are going downhill by the minute.”

Feyre sat back in her chair. “I’m…thrilled.”

Quite frankly, Feyre wanted to get up and go. The distance between her and her sisters was somewhat of a relief at times. Though she missed her nieces, the strain on their relationship was always taught. Always ready to snap.

Here, her life was rarely contested by the weight of that strain. It was her world, where Feyre had made something of herself.

“You don’t look very thrilled,” observed Elain.

“No…I am,” she protested. Perhaps this  _was_  a fresh start.

Suddenly, Nesta extended her hand over the table. Feyre just stared at it as if it would bite.

“Take it, you idiot,” Nesta said, though it held no bite.

So, she did.

“Let’s start again, anew.”

Something in Nesta’s voice gave Feyre an inkling of hope.


	5. Saturday Night Fever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: shameless innuendoes, kinky ass lucien, a boatload of sexual tension, rhys is a sex god but really he is just needy, if you hadn't already guessed, this is NSFW af

“Jesus fucking Christ, Rhysand.  _That is not how you peel a potato.”_

Rhys blinked. “Isn’t it?”

Lucien sighed deeply. His boyfriend was a kitchen nightmare.

He took the grater from Rhys and replaced it with a peeler. Lucien was apprehensive about letting his boyfriend help him with dinner, but after Rhys had groaned and pleaded that he wanted to help out, he had relented.

“You are bloody ridiculous,” he said, as he showed a 29-year-old man how to peel a potato.

It was early evening, and Feyre was going to arrive at any moment. Dinner was going to be later than planned after Lucien fell asleep on Rhys, the latter too absorbed in the Chase to wake his boyfriend to make dinner.

Rhys finished the potatoes, and Lucien ordered him to sit down and just watch. The potato peeling was too painful.

“Rhys, sit down, I will deal with this.”

“Wow babe, you know exactly how to turn me on.”

The anticipation of the night ahead was getting Lucien agitated.

Feyre had become something more than a conquest. And Lucien knew Rhys felt it too. Beyond the sexual fantasies they had discussed, there was genuine emotional attraction. Feelings that Lucien had felt even when Feyre had paraded through his office with her binders and brogues.

Yet there was something that unnerved him, a slight voice in the back of his head. She had voiced her concerns, and Rhys and himself had done their best to reassure her. The least he wanted was any discomfort, any holding back. He was in too deep to be unaffected by any potential rejection.

“Why are you tense?” Rhys asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been staring at boiling potatoes for a minute now.” Lucien’s shoulders forced themselves to relax.

Rhys approached from behind. A broad hand rubbed up his back making him shiver.

“What are you thinking about, hm?” his voice was like silk in his ear.

“Nothing of consequence,” Lucien lied.

Rhys turned Lucien around, pressing him into the counter, caging him in. “Liar. Tell me what’s in that beautiful head of yours.”

From the moment they met, Rhys was always able to see through him. Like he was capable of opening up his mind and reading every bloody thought.

Feyre seemed to have the same skill.

“I’m nervous,” he admitted.

“Why?”

“Because I really like her, Rhys. As in,  _like_  like.”

“I know,” he said running a hand up his shoulder and around the back of his neck. “I really like her, too.”

Lucien’s hands navigated their way round his waist. Rhys’ jumper was soft under his fingers.

“I just don’t want to mess this up.”

“Why? Because you’re worried that she’s going to find out how utterly immoral you are in the bedroom and leave without ever talking to us again?” he teased, and Lucien lowered his eyes.

The hand round his neck tightened. “Lucien, wait, you’re serious? You’re seriously worried about that?”

“Maybe.”

“Bloody hell,” his boyfriend laughed. “She already knows what we’re like if the flippin sex dungeon jokes and office vibrators aren’t indicative enough.”

“Both of which, are your fault,” he muttered.

“Don’t get all self-conscious on me now, foxboy.”

That damn nickname arose out of provocation from when they first met, and Lucien scowled.

“Hey, hey,” Rhys’ hands were on his face now. “Communication is key, remember?”

And then Rhys kissed him, unhurried. And Lucien lost himself in it, letting him lead.

The contours of Rhys’ body were all hard and sharp lines, and Lucien loved drowning in his touch, how they fit so perfectly against one another. Perhaps it was the sexual tension that Feyre had brought with her that was the reason for why Lucien couldn’t help himself as he ran a hand down between them and over the front of his boyfriend’s trousers.

“ _Lucien_ , fuck,” he gasped, pressing their foreheads together.

Lucien continued his ministrations, rubbing over the thin material, feeling that familiar hardness grow beneath.

“Christ, Lucien,” Rhys grabbed his wrist. “Feyre could be here any moment.”

“Don’t get all self-conscious on me now, Spera,” he mimicked, his voice low and promising.

The look in those eyes almost had Lucien getting on his knees right then and there on the kitchen floor while boiling water was bubbling over the pot of potatoes. But he was stopped from doing so as a knock sounded at the door.

***

Feyre had done a bit of shopping with her sisters after they allowed her to get home and change.

They actually had a laugh, something that Feyre hadn’t really experienced with her sisters since she was a child. It was still tense and awkward at times and often Feyre found herself scrambling for something to say that wouldn’t incite any disapproving looks, which was difficult. Though, it felt promising, that perhaps she would be able to develop something civil with her sisters. Amicable even.

Now, she stood before Rhys and Lucien’s door in a newly bought dress. It was a casual one, cotton and black that cinched in at the waist and flowed around her legs to her knees. A bit too summery for mid-October, but Feyre liked the way their eyes trailed her legs when she wore a dress en lieu of trousers.

“Hello,” said Lucien as he opened the door. His eyes briefly fell to her bare legs before forcing their way back up to her eyes.

“Hi,” she smiled, already feeling like the night, with them, was setting her back in the best possible direction.

Rhys was in the kitchen, sat suspiciously at the island, when she went in.

“How was lunch with your sisters?” 

She winced slightly, only then recalling everything that ruined her early afternoon. “Eventful. I wish I was an only child at times.”

“Ah, I was praying for you when you left me. Nesta seemed  _lovely._ ”

Feyre planted her hands on the marble countertop, squeezing her eyes closed. Her sister seriously had no chill.

“Sorry, about that,” she said to Rhys, bashfully.

“It  _was_  quite a compromising position we were caught in.” Rhys wiggled his eyebrows.

No matter how much Feyre painted Rhys as a devilish sex god, he would always do things that were dorky as fuck. It somehow made him more attractive. She shook her head with a laugh, brushing off the feel of his hands on her thighs for the thousandth time that day.

“I told them about you. Both of you,” she then said. Perhaps a bit too much. Her cheeks heated at the audacity of her stupid mouth.

Lucien came up behind her placing both hands on her shoulders, rubbing at them slightly. “How did they take that?”

She sighed. Looked up. Closed her eyes. “Not great. They don’t really understand. I didn’t really tell them in the right way.”

Rhys just looked strangely amused. “I hope you gave us a good image, Feyre darling.”

“Yes, well, you could say that. Though, I may or may not have snapped at them. Because they were- Fuck  _Lucien_ ,” she gasped as his hands found a particular point on her neck.

“Continue,” he ordered, his breath hot in her ear. Dammit,  _she had only just got here._

“Because they were being condescending. Telling me how to live. So I got angry, started telling them that I was currently dating  _two_  guys who were…freaks in the sheets and… other things… that are completely inappropriate for a public space.”

Lucien’s hands stilled.

“We do tend to be quite freaky,” Rhys said nonchalantly, though he was grinning.

Then Lucien’s hands resumed, though they no longer kneaded at her shoulders and neck, they instead found a path down her arms.

She couldn’t even see Lucien’s face. But she knew he was smiling.

“I-I-“ she didn’t know what quite to say. She was  _not_  going to tell them about the mentions of orgasms or the guesstimates of their…phallic regions.

Her knees shook slightly.

The heat of Lucien’s presence at her back hit her then, as he pressed against her.

“We have yet to give you a demonstration,” Lucien said, his lips ghosting her cheek.

Lucien’s hand had placed itself on her lower stomach, drawling lazy patterns as he pressed kisses to the bare skin of her neck.

Well, she had been there for less than 5 minutes and already her pants were fucking wet. Not too shabby.

“You’re not even going to feed me first?” she asked, it was more like a squeak.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

She finally turned her head to meet his and his eyes were darkened to dusk.

He kissed her softly before taking her bottom lip between his teeth pulling a whimper from her mouth.

“As much as I am enjoying this sight, I agree with milady that we should be fed  _food_  before Lucien gets all demanding,” said Rhys, who had stood up at some point and leaned indolently at the counter beside them.

The warmth of Lucien’s hand low on her stomach was removed, instead it climbed her torso until he dragged his knuckles along the side of her breast.

And then he moved briskly away to the stove to whatever he was making and fuck her to Mars, her swallow was  _painful_.

Rhys came to her side, tucking some hair behind her ear before saying, “By the way, if you only came here for dinner and a nice night, then that’s all there’ll be.”

“Are you insinuating that I put on my best underwear for  _dinner and a nice night_?”

Lucien snorted from where he stood at the cooker.

The smile that tugged at Rhys’ lips was nothing short of devilish.

It was going to be a long night.

***

Before, their touches were like sparks. Now they were like fireworks.

They were eating dinner, courtesy of Lucien, and conversation was safe. She tried her best to not squirm so much, anticipation eating away at her. They seemed to notice, as they conversed secretly to one another.

No matter how many dorky jokes they would make, there was nothing that could diffuse the bomb that was tick,

Tick,

Tick,

ticking away.

The clock chimed 8 o clock.

Rhys was talking about something, she couldn’t quite decipher what. Only that she was watching his mouth move, how the top button of his shirt was undone. How his lips would pull into a sensual smile.

For the first time in her life, wine was unnecessary. Was it possible to be drunk on human beings? Or was the sexual tension making her slightly hazy?

And yet, she was sitting at a table with two men who had attained an infinite amount of patience. They would probably get off on just teasing her until she combusted. By sexy Jesus’ loincloth, what the fuck was she getting into.

A hand braced on her bare knee under the table and she snapped her eyes to Lucien, who was looking at her as if she was the next course.

Tick.

“Hi,” she said.

His grin was predatory. “You’re adorable when you’re nervous.”

His thumb brushed her knee.

She scowled. “You’re an awful tease.”

“I have a bad habit of playing with my food.”

Tick.

She turned her head to Rhys, trying to ignore Lucien’s gaze before she got on her knees to get this fucking show on the road.

“Getting a bit restless, darling?”

He looked like sex. She didn’t know what genes he had managed to procure but somehow as he sat there, lazily, with a feline smile and mussed black hair, he was undeniably the epitome of sex.

Tick.

“Bedroom, shall we?” Lucien drawled.

She didn’t object. Empty plates were left at the table.

Feyre wasn’t quite certain what to do with herself. Her hands started to clam up, and a hot flush ran through her body.

Her heart was beginning to pound in synchrony to that ticking bomb.

Rhys took her hand and guided her up the stairs. He kissed her at the top, a dramatic kiss that attempted to ease her nerves and it worked because she laughed as he caught hold of her weight and dipped her low.

“I do adore that laugh of yours,” Rhys said, pulling her back to her feet with a smile that could melt bones.

She barely had time to respond before being navigated to the bedroom.

It was as clean and tidy, she remembered Lucien telling her Rhys could be a bit of a clean freak at times. The bed was as ridiculously huge, the lighting low to fit the mood. A window was open, letting in a thankful cool breeze while sirens whirred in the near distance.

She was standing a bit foolishly as she took in the details of the room once more, feet sinking into that plush carpet. A body pressed into her back, it was Lucien again, hands grazing up and down her sides.

Rhys caught her gaze as he stepped towards them, he took her chin in his hand.

“Would you like to do this?” he asked. His eyes were dark, serious.

She nodded. “Yes.”

“You say stop. We stop. You say go. We go. If you need a minute to yourself, a glass of water, use the bathroom, say. You want to end this at any point, the safe word is Velaris, or any word of your choosing for that matter and we will take you home, whatever you need.”

“What’s the significance of Velaris?”

He smiled. “You’ll know soon enough.”

“More secrets, Mr Bond. Why should I not be surprised.”

He laughed then.

“If we don’t get started,” said Lucien into her ear. “I may explode.”

Feyre scrunched up her nose. “What an awful mess that would make.”

Lucien had turned her around in his arms. He was smiling when their mouths met.

His kisses started surprisingly soft, and she mentally cursed her clammy palms for revealing her nervousness. She let her bones grow heavy, her head falling back to rest against Rhys’ shoulder. Lucien’s thumb brushed along her jaw in languid strokes in time with his lips, his tongue.

She sensed Rhys press closer to her back, his hands smoothing up her sides to cup her breasts, her back arching at the touch.

Rhys swore in her ear.

Her breath hitched as Lucien increased pace, his lips pressed harder into hers. Electricity passed between them, even as Lucien demanded too much of her mouth, even when she struggled to catch up.

It took a moment for Feyre to register Rhys’ hand slide to move to the back of her legs, the pads of his fingers leaving sparks. She felt everything at once. The hem of her dress lifting, Rhys’ fingertips brushing up her thighs as Lucien moved his mouth to her jaw, her neck.

Lucien was hardening against her and she reached down a hand to feel him, earning a rather shaky breath in her ear. But he snatched her hand away, forcing it to her side.

“Not yet.”

“Please,” she said.

“And the begging begins,” said Lucien. His smile was fox-like.

“Can we take this off?” Rhys asked lowly, as he scrunched the hem of her dress to her hips.

She nodded impatiently and lifted her arms, allowing Rhys to slowly pull off her dress, dragging his fingers up her skin as he did so.

As soon as the dress hit the floor, her eagerness to be bare was overridden by sudden insecurity.

“ _Feyre-_ “ Rhys choked out.

Exploring hands trailed down the bare skin of her waist, to her hips, the curve of her backside.

“ _God,_  just look at you,” Lucien murmured, his eyes trailing her body, leaving heat in its wake. She smiled, looking down at her pretty blue bralette she found out the bottom of her drawer. And just like that, sudden insecurity was replaced by sudden confidence.

“Turn for me, love,” he said. She obeyed, twirling, smiling and dizzy from their attention, until Lucien planted his hands back on her waist. “Undress him.”

“Bossy,” she muttered, and her eyes connected with Rhys’. He winked.

It earned a squeeze on her backside. Lucien bit her ear gently before murmuring, “Back chatting is only going to make you wait longer.”

There was little doubt of the matter.

She reached out to pull Rhys’ jumper over his head, and he had to help considering his height. She then worked on his shirt, and where she unbuttoned, she leaned in to trace her mouth at the newly revealed skin. Rhys’ hand tangled in her hair as she grazed her teeth over his collarbone.

“He likes it when you sink your teeth a little bit,” Lucien said, bracing his hands on her hips.

She pushed Rhys’ shirt over his shoulders and pressed her mouth to his neck, biting gently, unsure of how hard to go. It earned a low moan from Rhys’ mouth. 

Lucien then whispered in her ear a simple praise. A praise that settled under her skin and into her bones.

“ _Good girl_.”

Before she could even respond, perhaps with a sarcastic remark or a moan she couldn’t quite tell, Rhys had taken her face and brought their lips together. As he worshipped her mouth, her hands found their own path down his abdomen, towards the belt at his trousers. She was fumbling, desperate to increase the pace, regain some control.

Her head fell back on Lucien’s shoulder as Rhys kissed her deeper, his tongue coaxing a slight whine from her throat.

“Fuck,” Lucien breathed.

When her hands failed at the button on his trousers, too side tracked by Rhys’ lips, Lucien’s own hands took over. She was tangled between them, pressed between their two bodies, barely able to conjure a coherent thought.

Rhys broke away, leaving her dizzy.

She barely had time to regain her senses because she was being tugged to the bed.

“Sit for us, Feyre,” Lucien said. And she did, leaning back on her hands.

“Why do you still have clothes on?” she asked Lucien. He looked down at her, placing a hand in his pocket, cocking his head.

“Because I like getting you all wet and bothered,” he said.

Feyre narrowed her eyes. “Take your damn clothes off.”

Lucien began to lean down over her, placing his hands on either side of her hips, his face nearing her own.

With his nose brushing hers and eyes of burning embers, he breathed, “Beg for it.”

She glared, wanting to give in for out of need to see him naked and vulnerable, wanting to defy his every demand just to see how far she could, to see how much power she could take from him.

Having had disappeared for a few moments, Rhys emerged out of the corner of her eye, placing packets and bottles on the bedside table.

Lucien brought her gaze back to his by biting her lip and tugging.

“I’ll tell you what, if you’re a good girl while Rhys has his mouth on your cunt then I will consider it.”

She could drown in the lust of his voice. But she couldn’t help herself to test him. “But how are you measuring good? I need criteria.”

Rhys barked a laugh as he sat beside her, pulling a bra strap down and pressing a kiss to her shoulder.

“He makes up new criteria every time, there isn’t necessarily a rule list,” Rhys said.

So, with Lucien frustratingly clothed, they manoeuvred around. She sat between Lucien’s legs, leaning back against his chest while Rhys knelt before her.

With steady hands, Lucien pulled her knees apart. She swallowed deeply, breath quickening as Rhys traced his fingers on her inner thighs, over her stretch marks and the sensitive skin.

It was difficult to account for all the simultaneous touches, Luciens hands finding themselves under her bra to cup her breasts as Rhys knelt between her thighs.

“Let’s find what makes Feyre Archeron tick, shall we?” Rhys said, absently pressing a finger to the damp patch of her underwear.

Her eyes flickered closed, she fought the  _please_  climbing up her throat.

“Tell us how to make you feel good,” Lucien said in her ear.

She was a shaking, shivering mess by the time Rhys’ fingers finally pushed aside her underwear. Lucien swallowed her whine with his mouth.

Rhys murmured something, probably a swear word, before settling on his stomach, his head between her thighs. Her underwear was peeled down her legs.

Immediate worries of her smell and taste were mentally told to fuck off. Feyre had spent far too much time imagining this situation, with Rhys,(or Lucien’s, she wasn’t fucking picky) head nestled between her thighs. 

Without any further warning, Rhys pressed his mouth to her. Her breath hitched, sounds so utterly foreign escaping her lips. She braced a hand on Lucien’s knee. Another hand in Rhys’ hair to grasp at the strands, to anchor her to earth.

Back arching, head falling onto Lucien’s shoulder, she could barely stay still as Rhys worked her with his tongue, slowly, languidly, like he was desperate not to rush anything, like he was exploring all the ways he could pull a new sound out of her. Lucien didn’t stop the expedition of her body, his hand resting gently on her throat as he kissed her cheek.

“Like that?” he asked.

She could barely breath out an answer.

“Tell us, Feyre.”

She must have choked out a  _yes, there_.  _Don’t stop._ Lucien seemed satisfied, smiling slowly against her skin. There were sparks behind her eyelids. 

“I want you to watch,” he then said, turning her face down with a finger to her cheek where Rhys lay between her legs. She was truly, utterly, fucked.

She came like that, lost in the sensations of their touch, how Rhys smirked against her when their eyes had met.

Rhys returned to his knees, hands braced on her thighs.

He was smirking at her, hair mussed from her tugging, mouth wet. “Good?”

She nodded, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face, because she was dazed from the rush that ran through her body.

“That was much quicker than anticipated,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her mouth. She tasted herself. It didn’t bother her. 

“You both tested my patience too much,” Feyre muttered.

“We’ve still yet to make you beg,” promised Lucien.

She shivered in his arms.

“Kiss me, I want to taste her,” Lucien then said to Rhys, who happily obliged, leaning over her to find Lucien’s mouth.

Feyre stroked down Rhys’ chest as she watched. There was something about the way they kissed that made her skin tingle, her thighs want to squeeze together. 

Even as she watched, Lucien’s hand found its way between her legs, stroking idly. Quite possibly, Feyre Archeron was not going to walk out of this damned bedroom.

Rhys broke away, just as Feyre stroked over the front of his boxers inciting a sigh.

“Cruel, wicked, thing.”

“Doesn’t it seem unfair that I’m the only one completely naked,” she said, looking between them.

Rhys grinned, stepping off the bed to shake off his boxers before returning.

_This man was not made on this earth._

“Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies,” he teased, pressing on Feyre’s jaw.

“No, open your mouth,” said Lucien, “you look pretty like that.”

When she faced him, he was staring intently, eyes darkened – well, eye, his right glass eye remaining the familiar brown. She saw a flicker of patience waver.

“You’re still wearing too many clothes,” she said, and with a light push on his chest, Lucien fell back against the pillows.

“What are you doing?” he asked, an eyebrow quirked as he leaned on his elbows.

“Taking matters into my own hands.”

“Feyre, Feyre, Feyre,” Lucien chastised, though his eyes were laughing. “This is not how this works.”

Feyre looked back towards Rhys, who only shrugged, seemingly amused at the powerplay unravelling before him. She climbed into Lucien’s lap, choosing to straddle his hips. He continued to look up at her intently, a smirk that still seemed to say that he held the control. She wanted to pry it from him.

Rhys came to her side, and whispered into her ear, too quietly for Lucien to hear, “Fuck with his sanity a little bit, he’s too put together for his own good.”

“Are you both plotting against me?” Lucien asked, head cocking to the side.

“Maybe,” she said utilising Rhys’ signature smirk. Then, she lowered her knees, sitting directly on Lucien’s crotch. He hissed.

“You’re not a good girl at all, are you?”

“Only on Friday’s.”

Lucien threw back his head to laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She began to move her hips over him and she watched him swallow a moan. There were far too many layers between them.

“I think I’ll be the one making  _you_  beg in a minute,” she said, the power of testing him playing in her mind. Rhys’ hand moved gently on her lower back, coaxing her on.

“Keep going,” Rhys said lowly, and when she turned her head to look him, he was the picture of temptation.

His mouth met hers before she could meet his. It was difficult to keep up her grinding while Rhys was stroking his tongue against hers. Her clit grazed Lucien’s zipper and she moaned, dragging a hand down Rhys’ chest to reach his cock, desperate to feel him.

Rhys let out an all-consuming moan into her mouth, his hand gripping her neck.

So much power over these two men. It was dizzying.

When Feyre turned her head back to Lucien, a fire burned in his eyes. His hands were closed to fists as his upper arms shook with the strength of keeping himself upright on his forearms. His mouth was slightly open, like he was suppressing all the noises with great strain.

While she continued to stroke Rhys, who had turned his mouth to her neck, she stared Lucien down triumphantly.

Though Lucien smirked like he had still won.

She didn’t even know what they were fighting over anymore, because his hardness was pressing too deliciously into her and Rhys’ hand had moved over hers to show her how he liked to be stroked and  _oh gods_  Lucien could fucking see that. He could see how her hips would begin to stutter and how her eyes would flicker close for the brief moments that Rhys’ lips found that sensitive part on her neck.

“Take your fucking clothes off, Lucien,” she ordered.

“Still waiting for those missing manners, Feyre,” he said, his voice was so low that it seeped into her bones.

Rhys moved her hand from him with a strained sigh, like he was holding off. “Please, dear god Lucien. Or Feyre. Just someone start begging so I can be fucked.”

Feyre was too consumed by lust to laugh. She closed her eyes and gave in.

“Please,” she murmured.

“What was that?”

“ _Please_ ,” she said, clearer that time. Lucien sat up, bringing them chest to chest.

“Look at me, Feyre. I want you to look at me when you beg.” His hands stroked through her hair soothingly, brushing the damp hair from her face. His eyes were hard, but his mouth was soft. As much as she wanted to rebel, she was also willing to submit. She had never seen Lucien like this. There were hints. But now as she sat, shamelessly grinding in his lap to find some damn friction while he had succeeded in reducing her to a begging mess, Feyre was enjoying every second.

“Please, Lucien. I want to see you,” she whispered.

She shivered as he ran a self-assured hand down the bare skin of her back. Despite the power she felt when she held those reigns, relinquishing that power was just as easy.

“See, you can be a good girl on Saturday’s too,” he smiled.

***

Feyre ached. Ached to the point that her bones sunk deeper into the mattress. All she knew, was that she didn’t want to open her eyes.

She buried her face deeper into Lucien’s chest. She knew it was Lucien, because he was softer, less defined in muscle than Rhys. Though Rhys’ heat spread against her back, his legs tangled with hers.

They were clammy, twisted like that between the sheets when the sun started to pour through the window. Feyre was already dreaming of a hot shower and a toothbrush, when Lucien ran a hand through her hair.

“I know you’re awake, angel,” he said, the morning catching on his voice.

“No, I’m not,” she grumbled into his skin. Fuck, her jaw ached.

He chuckled, and she felt the vibrations against her face. With a long yawn she stretched back against the bed sheets, reaching upwards, mindful of not knocking Rhys in the face. He was still sound asleep, breathing softly and deeply as he slept on his front, his arm still draped along her waist.

Brushing away a few locks of inky black hear from Rhys’ forehead, Feyre watched him sleep. Everyone looked younger, more innocent when they slept. Rhys was no exception. 

“Rhys sleeps like the dead, not a morning person in the slightest,” Lucien said. It made her stomach flip to know such things, such mundane things about them. How Rhys was a terrible cook and liked noughties pop while Lucien recorded Come Dine With Me reruns just to skip the adverts. Now, it was knowing how Rhys was a terrible morning person.

Lucien was looking down at her, a head propped on his hand. His hair was shoved back in a messy bun, as he had told me he hates sleeping with it down.

Another little piece of information.

“When do you want breakfast?” he asked.

At the mention of food, Feyre’s stomach rumbled.

“Now, if possible,” she smiled weakly.

A nod. A smile. And then pressed a kiss to her cheek. And her nose. Before reaching over to press a kiss to Rhys’ forehead.

He didn’t even stir.

She watched as he slipped out of bed, completely bare, to retrieve a fresh pair of boxers from his drawer. He was so incredibly beautiful. She had told him just that last night, though she wasn’t quite sure he believed her.

Before leaving the room, Lucien threw a wink her way leaving her hot and flustered. Or maybe it was just the fact of the situation catching up with her, as she lay barely covered by their sheets with a sleeping, very naked, Rhys beside her.

The things she had done last night were far from the good girl persona Lucien and Rhys had crafted for her. In fact, if her mother knew, she would be condemned to the very depths of hell with Satan to befriend her. But by god, she would sell a fucking limb to do it again.

It took significant strength to roll out of bed, and she was hot and sweaty by the time she figured out the rubix cube to turn on the shower.

Showers were a dangerous place, because you were left in the solitude of dangerous thoughts.

Thoughts consisting of when she will outstay her welcome, what time should she leave? What on earth did she say to them after this?

_Hi, Rhys and Lucien, cheers for giving me the best sex of my life and finding new ways to make me feel pleasure that even my fucking vibrator has failed to find, would like to do this again sometime but I’m terrified that I’m becoming too attached, pip pip cheerio, see you at work Lucien._

Surely this was just a one-off thing for them, a new conquest. Of course, Feyre was now legally bonded to them under a disclosure agreement, but that was because Lucien drunkenly told her of his boyfriend’s true antiques. And  _surely,_  she was overplaying their interactions in her head to decipher what was basic hospitality and chivalry to genuine feelings.

Because Feyre liked them, was falling for them, in fact. And the thought of being discarded was more painful than anticipated.

 _You’re still an outsider,_   _Feyre_ , she told herself.

Through the mirror, Feyre watched herself brush her teeth in the expanse of their en suite. There were two sinks. His and hers. Or his and his, in this case.

Every little thing seemed to remind her of her place in this:

A temporary fling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you SO incredibly much for the kudos and comments. I appreciate you so damn much.


	6. Monday Mornings and Improper Advances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: feelings, propositions, exceptionally shitty bosses, panic and anxiety, overprotective prospective boyfriends, toilet cubicles, the word ‘cubicle’, scheming, the descent into the dark dark world

Walking into work after a weekend of earth shattering sex was painful to say the least. 

Feyre hadn’t met up with Lucien at the tube because she woke up late, and now she was rushing into her building attempting to avoid Ianthe and being clocked in as 15 minutes late and losing an hour of pay.

Eventually reaching the offices, she snuck to Lucien’s office, not even knocking as she slipped through the door and closed it behind her.

He was sat at his desk, engrossed in whatever was on his computer screen. He didn’t even lift his head when he said, “I never took you for being tardy, Miss Archeron.”

“I’m not, normally. But then again I don’t  _normally_  spend my Sunday’s fucking my co-worker and his boyfriend.”

Lucien looked up from his computer then and threw her a sly smile. “Hmm, I guess it’s something you’re just going to have to get used to.”

She smiled at that.

There were two reasons why Feyre wrenched herself from the holds of Rhys and Lucien the night before. The first being work. The second being the overwhelming feeling that she had overstayed her welcome. The latter reason was driven by mainly her own paranoia, as Lucien and Rhys had outright asked her to stay another night. But as always, Feyre needed to worry and mull over her own anxieties in the peace of her own bed.

She didn’t realise how tired she was when her head hit her own pillow and sleep consumed her to the point that she missed her alarms.

“Maybe,” she muttered, slightly bashful at the seriousness in his tone.

Pushing herself from the door, she approached his desk. She told herself to leave and go to her own desk, check her emails, like a good employee. But damn her she just needed to get her morning dose of Lucien before she set her mind to work.

“Something on your mind, Fey?”

She hadn’t even sat down, just dumbly stood at his desk, thumbing some of the paper work that lay there.

“Maybe,” she said again, uncertain of what to say. Her mind was a jumble of feelings and thoughts that she could not yet decipher.

Before she could register it, Lucien had gotten up and moved around his desk to her side.

“Hey, what’s up,” he asked gently, brushing a strand of hair around her ear.

“I don’t really know.” And it was the truth. She then looked up to him and joked, “Just feeling a little deprived of your touch.”

He probably saw the mess of emotion behind her eyes, but he didn’t press any further. For that she was grateful. It was too early, too Monday, to talk of  _feelings_.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah,” she laughed, “I don’t know if anyone told you, but you and Rhys are pretty insatiable.”

He pulled her closer, a hand snaking around her back to press her against him. His touched both surprised her and unravelled her. She held the suspicion that now their plans of a ménage à trois were complete, that they would gradually ease off.

Feyre was glad to know that she could dive into the satisfaction of being held for a little bit longer.

His lips touched her cheek, and she felt the movement of them as he said, “We missed you, last night.”

“I told you, insatiable,” she squeaked. They were making this very difficult for her.

Lucien must have felt her cheeks heat against his lips because he smiled. His fingers pressed against her jaw to turn her head, so their noses brushed, lips centimetres apart.

“What are you doing this weekend?”

“You and Rhys, hopefully,” she said.

“That can be arranged.”

She kissed him then, unable to bare the space between their lips. She hated herself for it, knowing that she was digging a deeper hole. A hole so deep that soon she would no longer be able to see the light.

After a weekend of sharing kisses, Feyre found herself able to anticipate Lucien’s actions more, able to keep up. That was until he slipped his tongue past her lips while snaking a hand down to her backside. She pulled at the roots of his hair in response and before she knew it her back was pressed against a filing cabinet. She gasped, more out of shock of the revelation of their settings.

She pulled away, slightly dazed, “Office,” she breathed out.

Lucien looked around pointedly, “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, stepping back. She needed more space before she ended up jumping him on his office floor.

“I don’t really fancy the odds of someone walking in while being fucked on your desk at 10 am,” she said, running a hand through her hair.

“Oh, but Feyre,” he winked, “that’s the fun of it.”

She shook her head, though the corner of her lips turned upwards.

Even when she looked back towards him, he was watching her with eyes softened, like he could perhaps read her emotions better than she could.

“Check the group chat, Rhys asked us for lunch,” he then said, moving to round his desk again, giving her space. “But I don’t think I can leave the office today, I have a meeting at 12:30.”

“I will bring you back something, then,” she said, her feet finding the ability to walk once again.

“Make it sexual.”

Their eyes met, and she laughed at the cheekiness in them. He might as well have ended her just there and then.

She barely got to the door before it swung open revealing Tamlin. It was far too early. 

“Feyre.”

“Oh, good morning Tamlin.”

“You’re just who I was looking for actually. I thought I would find you here, considering you’ve been spending more time in Lucien’s office than your own desk.”

She felt Lucien’s eyes burn into her back.

“I-“ she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, sorting through thoughts in her head that seemed convincing of the fact that she had not just been tasting the coffee on Lucien’s lips minutes prior. “I’ve been consulting with Lucien to ensure the technical design is finalised, so we can draft the contractual agreement before construction ensues.”

Tamlin’s expression softened from condescension into false understanding. “Right, well, good. I need you in my office for a few moments.”

“Of course.”

She briefly glanced at Lucien, who was smiling quite proudly at her. He sent her a dorky thumbs up, giving her the boost of confidence she needed before following her superior.

Upon reaching Tamlin’s office, he motioned to a chair and shut the door behind them, turning the blinds as he did so.

And just like that, her heart began to pound with that familiar anxiety.

Tamlin shuffled past and took his own chair, placing his forearms on the desk. His voice turned low as he finally said, “On Friday, I saw you with Lucien and his…companion.”

She should have guessed that Tamlin would not just ignore that whole situation. Rhys had told her that.

“Oh, yes. I saw you with Ianthe and…your companion?” She refrained from saying suspected warmonger. But that would completely destroy her disclosure agreement with Rhys on the first day.

What the hell was she doing in this life again?

“I think it would be in your interest, if we kept our private lives out of any workplace gossip,” he smiled sweetly.

It was nothing overt. But Feyre heard the underlying threat.

She forced on her confused, blank stare.

“Of course,” she said, “I have no reason to gossip about such insolent things.”

“Good. Nice to know we’re on the same page.”

She smiled weakly, desperate to get out of there and hide in Lucien’s office for the rest of the day.

“If that’s all, I have quite a lot to go through today,” she announced, about to get up. But Tamlin motioned her to sit back down.

Her palms started to sweat.

“I also wanted to address a few things with you Feyre.”

_Fuck mondays, seriously._

He continued, “I have a no relationship policy in this office, intervenes with the work ethic, you see. Considering you’re hired from another company, I will give you the initial pass. Otherwise, I wish for you to end whatever you have going on with my vice.”

Feyre began to laugh. “I’m sorry  _what_?”

Nerves were serving her well in the current moment, because she was sweating and hot and desperately wanted to get out of there so she was sat in Tamlin’s office laughing like a maniac.

Racking her racing brain for  _something_ , to deter from the fact that Lucien did  _not_  have his head between her thighs only 24 hours earlier while she sucked his boyfriend off, she spluttered out, “Tamlin, Lucien’s  _gay._ ”

Tamlin narrowed his eyes suspiciously, leaning back in his chair as he assessed her. “Ianthe told me there was something going on with you two, you were at the Ritz with him on Friday and you have been spending a lot of time with him in the office.”

She barked out another maniacal laugh. “You have the wrong end the stick completely. Tamlin, Lucien is the overseer of a project that  _I_ am managing. Besides, Lucien is 1000% gay. The  _gayest_  of the gay. Ask his boyfriend.”

Her boss stared at her strangely, then burst into laughter himself. “ _Oh_ , what a  _relief._  I have to admit Feyre, when I saw you with them on Friday I was certain you were partaking in some… _thing_  with a homosexual couple.”

She forced that fake smile to remain. “No, no. Not at all.”

Silence settled for the moment, and she cringed at the excuse she managed to create out of pure panic.  _I’m so sorry Lucien._ She was certain that if she took her blazer off there would be sweat marks on her clean white shirt.

“Okay,” Tamlin said, leaning forward on his forearms, “Does that mean you’re single?”

Feyre blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“That’s entirely inappropriate for a boss to be asking their employee after you have just told me that there are not workplace relationships, Tamlin.”

He waved his hand, “But I’m not really your boss though, am I? I’m essentially your client. Just an innocent question.”

Feyre had dealt with a handful of men in her lifetime who thought they could snake their way into her underwear by sheer intimidation. And normally, Feyre would be able to deal with it by giving them by some colourful swearing for the average ones or some mutual support of other women for the despicable ones. Now, she was alone. And on the inferior scale of the power imbalance. She couldn’t throw a drink in his face or tell him to go fuck himself.

It pained her to realise how powerless she really was in that moment.

“You still have the authority to replace me, send a bad report to my boss and damage my career,” she managed to say.

“Then I would bare those things in mind when I ask you for a drink sometime.”

She blinked. The powerlessness was really swallowing her now. “Are you blackmailing me?”

“Don’t take this out of context Feyre. Just think of this as a compliment. I know you’re working towards that promotion. So, if you comply, I will make sure your boss has a shiny report given at the end of the year.”

“And if I don’t?” her voice shook, her whole body shook. She wanted to be sick.

“Let’s not think about the consequences, let’s think about the potential rewards,” he said, linking his fingers together over his stomach. His eyes didn’t seem to show any emotion besides vague interest. He must have genuinely thought what he was saying was okay, that he asked all women out like this.

_Consequences._

Words had failed her, her mouth wanted to shout at him, use her arms to throw her chair into that fucking deceiving pretty face of his. She pictured stabbing staples into his hands and shoving his head through the window.

“I-“

“Think about it,” he interrupted. “I’ll give you to the end of the day. It’s just a drink.”

“But it’s never just a drink, is it?” she hated how small she sounded.

He shrugged, considering for a moment. “I’m just showing my interest.”

She stood on shaky legs. Barely able to look at him. Barely able to stomach the shame.

“Oh, and Feyre?”

She didn’t even turn, only stood, hand at the doorknob. Imagining how quickly she could open it.

“You look very nice today.”

Ears ringing, she opened the door and slammed it behind her.

***

Lucien hadn’t seen Feyre in at least an hour, and he was beginning to worry. He had just gotten off the phone with a client when he decided to go look for her. She hadn’t answered his texts.

But before he got up, his boss entered the room without so much as a knock. 

“Lucien, I thought I would come to you,” Tamlin asserted.

“Oh. Right, okay.”

Tamlin sat poised in the chair Feyre usually sat at.

“I had a chat with Feyre earlier about the events of Friday.”

_Ah yes, considering dabbling in a bit of illegal weapons trade, Tammy?_

“…Right.”

“And I just wanted to establish there will be no gossip.”

Lucien glared. “Okay, yeah, sure. I know the rules.”

Rules that had nothing to do with Tamlin, but his oath of secrecy to Rhys.

“Good. Because, your…boyfriend would not appreciate such gossip either.”

“My boyfriend isn’t one to speak of such trivial things so that won’t be a problem.”

Tamlin made a face. “Right, that’ll be all.”

He got up quickly, like the whole conversation was a difficulty for him. Like he wanted to just get in and go. Having had known Tamlin was a bloody homophobe when they were close in University, Lucien would have cut him out of his life then and there.

“Tamlin.”

His boss turned.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Lucien said, hoping he could hear the warning. Hoping that whatever plans he had, with that Amarantha or whoever else, were not going to be followed through. Hoping that Tamlin would not definitively tie himself to a bloody world.

However, Tamlin remained passive. “Get back to work, Lucien.”

As soon as he left, Lucien decided to find Feyre and see whether she experienced some out of character behaviour from his boss.

He ventured to her cubicle, but it was empty.

“Alis,” he said, the woman in the next cubicle. She lifted her head from the screen.

“Yes, Mr Vanserra?”

“Do you know where Feyre has gone?”

Alis worried at her lip for a moment, like she was debating her words. “She’s been in the toilets, sir. I think she was crying. I tried to help but she wanted to be left alone.”

 _Crying._  He thanked her before rushing off down the hallway.

He did not even hesitate before pushing open the ladies, which was thankfully empty aside from the locked cubicle in the corner.

“Feyre? Love, it’s me.”

There was a pause. “You can’t come in.” Her voice was cracked.

“Why? What’s wrong, what’s happened?”

“Because I don’t have a top on.”

He pressed his head to the stall. “And why are you half naked?”

“Because I had a panic attack and got really sweaty. Like sweating through my shirt, sweaty.”

He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling exceptionally protective. He lowered his voice, “Babe, I’ve seen you more than half naked by now, and sweaty.”

“It’s not that, I just don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Like what?”

“A mess.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. You were a mess by the time we were done with you on Saturday.”

There was a sniffle and a choked out laugh. Victory.

“Okay, you win,” she croaked out.

The door was unlocked, and Lucien squeezed in.

Rhys sometimes had panic attacks. They were rare, but Lucien had witnessed the aftermath enough times to be familiar with the red nose. Eyes that were lined with eternal fatigue. Clammy pale skin.

He opened his arms, an invitation of physical comfort which she quickly took. Sometimes Rhys just liked to be held. Seemed like Feyre did too.

She clung to him, her head resting on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around her body. The pads of his fingers traced soothing lines across her bare skin.

After what seemed like forever, she released him with a shuddering breath, to press her back against the stall wall, arms crossed against her chest. She was wearing the same bralette that they had took off that Saturday night.

_Irrelevant observation, Lucien._

“What did Tamlin do, Fey?” he asked.

She laughed a bit feverishly. “I feel like I’ve blown this out of proportion.”

He watched her eyes lower to the ground.

She continued. “He mentioned Friday, you know, told me to keep my mouth shut all that shit.  _Then_ , he mentioned you. How our relationship was getting suspicious and that such relationships between co-workers are forbidden.”

Lucien blinked. Considering there were 3 married couples in the office, that rule was utter bullshit.

“ _And_ , boy. When I pass it off that I was spending my Friday night with a very homosexual couple and that Tamlin had just gotten it all wrong, he then proceeds to ask me out. But not just  _hey Feyre, would you like to go for drinks? No? Okay, have a nice day._  It was more like  _hey Feyre, let’s go get drinks and if you say no then the report I will send back with you in December will be utter dog shite and you can say bye bye to that promotion_ , so you see, I felt very overwhelmed by that interaction.”

“He…blackmailed you,” he said. More so out of clarification, because Lucien was readying his defences.

“Yeah, well that what’s I said. But Tamlin was adamant that I was taking it out of context. But,” she waved her hands, “I’ve been trying to rehearse those five minutes and I’m pretty fucking certain that him holding the fate of my career over my head to make me go out with him is pretty  _in_ context.”

“And then I just sat there, like my mouth couldn’t fucking move. Of all the things I could have said. Like, I don’t know.  _I have a boyfriend, Tamlin._  Or  _I’m a fucking lesbian Tamlin_.  _Anything._  But I sat there like I was a bloody  _invalid_  because I couldn’t quite comprehend what he was asking of me.”

Words had honestly failed him. He started to shake, out of anger more than anything.

“Feyre,” he said slowly, “we’re going to report him right now.”

She shook her head. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? No, I won’t. Why should I get involved in anything now when I have only two months left on my contract here? And for that matter, it’s one word opposed to the other. Who is going to believe an externally hired architect over a well renowned CEO?”

“So, what… you’re just going to let him use you?”

Lucien was certain his face was contorted. He squeezed the back of his neck.

“No,” she said quietly, like she was still planning, scheming. “I’m going to use  _him.”_

She seemed to have spent the last hour thinking of this. 

“And what on earth do you mean by that, Feyre?”

She dropped her voice to a low whisper, “Tamlin is suspected of collaborating with a war criminal. Maybe I could be an in.”

“ _What?_ ” he exclaimed. “Are you out of your damned mind?”

“Why not?”

“Because this world is dangerous!”

“We’re in this world whether you like it or not. Lucien, you are working for a suspected collaborator to a war criminal.  _I_  am working for said suspected collaborator, in fact, I’m building him a fucking new set of offices! We are  _sleeping_  in the same bed with someone who takes down such suspected collaborators. How much more convincing do you need?”

“You’re not getting involved in Rhys’ mess.” He was getting protective. Rhys had been involved in some downright terrifying situations in that underworld. He could not, and would not want to see Feyre see how deadly that life could be.

“But I already  _am_ , Lucien.”

“But you’re only on the side lines! Tamlin is  _one_  of the thousand variables. You do this, your involvement gets deeper, the risk gets bigger. There must be something  _I_ could do that will get you out of this.”

Tell his boss to get fucked. Threaten to resign. Actually resign. He didn’t know. 

She pushed herself off the wall, taking a step to reduce the gap between them. She stared up at him, with eyes that held the determination to conquer a world.

“I’m not going to sit on the _side lines_  and wait for someone else to find another option. I’ve made my choice.”

“Rhys might not even let you.”

“He will. You know that Rhys collects opportunity like currency.”

He hated that she was right. He hated how good she was a reading people. Rhys immediately saw things like that as an asset to wield. But most of all, he hated how Tamlin had evolved into something ugly and he wondered if it had always been that way or Lucien was just ignorant to the changes.

“So, what, you’re going to go on a date with Tamlin, and expect him to give you valuable intelligence?”

“No. Yes. Maybe. But what other choice do I have? Decline, and my career is at stake. Accept and I’m  _alone_  and subject to Tamlin’s will for the next two months. Report him, and not enough will be done. At least now, Rhys might be able to use this.”

The air between them was tense, and she could see how he had given in.

“See, you don’t want to admit that I’m-“

Lucien planted his hand on her mouth in time with the bathroom door opening. The click of high of heels sounded on the vinyl floor.

They stilled. And damn her, damn this woman in front of him because she smiled against his hand, like one of those smiles where you catch the look of your mate across a classroom and suddenly you’re both in stitches and being sent out because of a simple bloody look.

He pressed his hand harder against her mouth to suppress the vibrations of a giggle that rose up in her throat. He warned her with his eyes but fuck him he had to bite his tongue so hard that he feared it bled. Her fingers gripped the front of his shirt.

Lucien had not yet experienced a Monday morning locked up in a toilet cubicle with the woman that he was falling hard for while trying to keep her quiet because she was going to break their cover by  _laughing._

A toilet flushed. Each second was painstaking slow. He smiled at how hard Feyre was concentrating on staying silent, how her eyes were now screwed shut, he felt her lips press together against his palm.

And then the click of heels faded, and the bathroom door once again closed.

She erupted into a fit of laughter as soon as he dropped his hand. And he couldn’t help himself as he joined her.

“Shh, shit  _Feyre_ , you need to stop, before we really break our cover,” he wheezed out.

“Why don’t you  _shhh_ ,” she said, before bringing her mouth to his.

It took a few moments, for them to stop smiling for their lips to actually move. But they eventually got there. His hand found its way in her hair as he wrapped his other arm around her body. It was almost too easy to lose himself in her touch, her arms around his neck. This was not the time or place but fuck, if Feyre wanted to kiss him in that moment, then he would let her.

“We should,” he breathed between a kiss, “Really…go somewhere…”

“More sanitary?” she asked. Pulling there mouths away.

He smiled again, cheeks hurting.  _Why was everything going to shit again?_  He momentarily forgot.

***

Walking into Night Enterprise was more intimidating than Feyre expected. There were metal detectors and guards that lined the reception. Her bag had to be checked and her finger print and picture had to be taken. Perhaps she should have just asked Rhys to meet her somewhere rather than bring lunch to him.

A blonde woman walked towards her the moment she left the lift. Wearing clothes that were probably equivalent in price to a car, she radiated a beauty that one could only be envious of.

“Feyre Archeron!” she exclaimed. “Rhys has been waiting for you.”

“Oh?” 

“Morrigan, but call me Mor,” she greeted, extending a hand. “I’m Rhys’ colleague and cousin.”

The name rang a bell, Rhys had mentioned her before, often in reference to wine tasting and childhood memories.

“Hi,” Feyre said, slightly embarrassed, reaching out to shake her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.” Her eyes sparkled. “No wonder they have taken a fancy to you, I adore your shoes.”

Feyre glanced down at her brogues, uncertain of how to handle the situation when an actual goddess crafted from gold was stood before her complimenting her shoes.

“Thank you,” she smiled, “Um-“

“Is that the famed Feyre Archeron?”

Feyre looked past Mor’s shoulder to find a man approach, his hair tied back, skin darker and richer than Rhys’. Fucking hell, they truly had won the gene pool.

She tried to dive back into her memory, her wine muddled memory, of Rhys talking about his friends.

She barely registered taking his outreached hand where he shook it enthusiastically. “We’ve wanted to meet you since Lucien drunkenly revealed his crush on an architect a couple months back.”

Feyre didn’t know whether to smile or blush. She did both.

Mor slapped his shoulder. “Cassian, here, has a tendency to speak completely unfiltered.”

 _Cassian._ Another name that rang a bell.

“So, you’re the guy that drunkenly got Phillip Schofield tattooed on your toe?”

_Why did she say these things, why couldn’t she just say hi and be done with the situation._

Thankfully, however, Cassian bellowed a full bellied laugh, earning a few looks from passers-by.

“Yes, that’s me. Looks like Rhys has been equipping you with the best ammunition before he even introduced you to us.” His eyes sparkled. “I would show you the consequences of that fateful night in Cardiff but alas, I don’t really fancy whipping out my toe when the boss is coming.” He nodded towards a corridor where Rhys emerged.

“No one wants to see your fucking feet anyway, Cass,” Mor mumbled under her breath.

“Feyre, darling,” Rhys greeted, coming to her side. She was glad that he didn’t lean in for a kiss or anything of the sort, because Feyre didn’t know what she would have done especially in a public setting. Intimate moments had only been reserved within pockets of privacy so far. And toilet cubicles apparently.

“Hey,” she greeted.

“I see you’ve met Cassian and Mor, some of my closest team members. Please, ignore everything they have to say, it’s likely not credible.”

Mor scoffed and kicked at Rhys’ shin with her pointy Louboutin heel. Rhys just laughed.

 _Right_. Because she wasn’t in an ordinary office. Yes, the building slotted in nicely with the financial district but everything on this floor anyway seemed to be a rouse. A glamour. Cassian and Mor then, were part of Rhys’ real world.The one that she needed to convince her way into.

“Come on, let’s have lunch,” said Rhys, taking her hand. Feyre nodded her goodbyes to Mor and Cassian who shared an unreadable glance. 

Rhys pointed to Cassian, “Can we have those papers on my desk by 3, please.”

Cassian saluted, “Sure thing, my lordship.”

Their relationship was really toeing the line between professional and banterous as Rhys flipped two fingers at him before guiding her down the corridor.

“I hope they didn’t give you any grief,” Rhys said, his hand more firmly twining with hers.

“No, they were lovely. They seem like they know a good time.”

“I can testify to that. You should come out with us at some point if you fancy a night of tequila, dancing and bad decisions.”

“Give me a time and date and I will be there.”

It may have come across as a bit desperate, but Feyre never really had friends since uni to do stupid shit with. She really really wanted to drink tequila, dance and make even more bad decisions. It was what she was good at.

Rhys’ office made Lucien’s look positively tiny. Similar to their flat, it had a whole wall of floor to ceiling windows, every piece of furniture was glossy black. Uncluttered, clean and pristine. The laptop at the desk was the only sign of him ever having worked in here.

Before Feyre could say anything, Rhys had bent down to press a chaste kiss to her lips.

“Sorry, I just wanted to do that but I didn’t know wh-“

Her hand found his tie and she tugged him back down. Lucien tasted like coffee but Rhys tasted like tea.

“It’s okay,” Feyre breathed when she pulled away. For some reason Feyre always managed to procure courage from their lips.

“Rhys. I need to talk to you,” she continued, giving him the paper bag filled with Cornish pasties and sausage rolls, before wandering the office.

“Something has happened with Tamlin, hasn’t it?”

She snapped her head back towards him, “Yes. Did Lucien tell you?”

“No, but I know Tamlin will not let the events of Friday slide without keeping potential variables in check.”

And so, she told him. She told him the reason for why her stomach was now in knots being in that office. Why she spent a half an hour in a toilet cubicle getting angry at herself rather than the one who had put her in a position. Rhys listened intently as they sat on a sofa in the corner of his office. She forced herself not get upset over it again.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I didn’t really say anything, only that he would give me to the end of the day to think about the offer.”

“Like it’s a fucking business proposal, that lowlife piece of shit,” he muttered, rubbing at the crease between his brow. “I wasn’t anticipating that Tamlin would be a major problem, but now I’m considering taking him out in his sleep.”

She choked out a laugh. “Wow, romantic. I’ve never had someone propose an assassination attempt for me.”

Rhys smiled, took her hand and squeezed it. But then his face turned serious. “There are not many things that I can do something without compromising my position. To get you out of this, the process can be long. But I will do it.”

It was a funny feeling, to have not one, but two people who turned immediately quite protective over her. Before, her colleagues at Beyond the Wall were merely just work friends, who would be just as powerless as she was in this situation. But she had a vice executive and a government operative on her side. It felt a tiny bit more reassuring that the consequences were not going to be so bad.

“No,” she said. “I have another idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all your comments, i love u all, they truly make me laugh and smile bless you ALL


	7. Whiskey with an excess of questionable motives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: worried lucien, undercover spy shit, super shitty bosses, super shitty men, drinking on the job, rhys in feyres head, not like that u saucy bugger, blackmail, cuddles, proclamations of infatuation, dorky rhys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry, I am awful at updating on here. I appreciate you all for reading and commenting thank you so much you lovely lovely people

“I hate this idea.”

“I know, Lucien,” Feyre sighed.

Lucien really really  _really_  hated this idea. He was sat on Feyre’s bed in her flat, watching as Rhys taped a microphone to the centre of her chest.

He spent a couple of moments admiring the art on her walls. She told them they were hers. It was strange, Feyre hadn’t really told them the extent of her artistic capabilities. She was blushing to the point of sweating when they complimented her artwork.

“Clip this onto your underwear,” Rhys said, handing her a small box, before brushing some hair from Feyre’s face to put an implant in her ear.

He hated how his boyfriend was not even the slightest bit resistant, but even agreed with Feyre that this was the best way to go about the situation. He had even introduced her to his team, and for the past five days, they had been preparing Feyre for a date that she was blackmailed to go on.

 _Yes, let’s use this shitty situation to try and lever some information from his shitty boss_. Lucien still didn’t bet on the chances that Tamlin would disclose anything important to Feyre on the first date, which was what scared him more. If Tamlin was willing to blackmail an employee into having drinks with him, Lucien didn’t want to think about how far his boss would go with such an abuse of power.

Lucien understood why she was being wired up, but he still refused to like the situation.

“Order sparkling water if you need to get out discreetly,” Rhys said, buttoning up Feyre’s shirt as she fumbled with her skirt.

“Who’s behind the bar?” she asked.

“Nuala,” he said. “It was going to be Cassian until we gave him the role of nearby casual alcoholic.”

It scared Lucien that Feyre was becoming rather friendly with the likes of Rhys’ team. Cassian and Mor had visited that week, and they had cocktails on the terrace. Cassian, Mor and Feyre got on like a house doused in oil with Rhys throwing the match. While he loved it, he simultaneously hated how she was quickly getting sucked up into the world that Lucien was very scared of.

And as much as he loved Rhys, his job was a constant point of worry for Lucien.

There was a knock at the bedroom door.

“’Tis me,” announced Mor, slipping through the door, dressed impeccably in a trouser suit. “I brought some shoes.”

Lucien watched as she sat Feyre down.

“These ones are Prada,” Mor gleamed. “I wear them when I’m in the mood to bathe in the blood of men.”

“Apt,” laughed Feyre. “Do you have shoes for every mood?”

“Of course I do. Only yesterday was I in the mood to make men’s balls retreat back into their body.”

“Ah, the black Louboutins,” asked Rhys, smirking.

She winked at him, “You know it, cousin.”

Mor, Feyre found, was a character whom she greatly admired. Exceptionally easy to talk to and even spill a few secrets to as she found out a few nights before over a couple of cocktails. So now, Mor seemed to know of all her insecurities concerning the slightly messy relationship that she had gotten herself into. Feyre didn’t realise how much she needed to confide in a female friend that was not a sister or an acquainted colleague until she sat on the terrace alone with Mor and talked for an entire evening.

By the time Mor had left the room, she was left with Rhys and Lucien, the latter still sulking and the former standing before her with his hands in his pockets.

Rhys helped her to stand. As much as she looked good in these heels, she hated them with their foot crippling abilities.

“You still want to do this?” asked Rhys, his hands were still on her waist.

“Yeah, sure, why not, might as well be complicit in Tamlin’s downfall.”

He smiled warily, “You rehearsed the questions?”

She nodded, suddenly a bit overwhelmed about what she was doing.

“We will be in an empty flat just across the street, hearing everything, seeing everything. Cassian and Nuala will be in there with you.”

It was reassuring that she was not alone to be preyed upon by her superior.

“Miss Archeron,” Rhys murmured, tucking hair behind her ear. “The Crown owes thanks for your service on behalf of special service Velaris.”

“God save the fucking queen,” said Lucien.

Lucien had been upset all week almost, aside from the times they shared a bed. Rhys had told her to let him sulk, but she couldn’t help but feel guilty.

Rhys looked up to the ceiling with a sigh. It made her guiltier that the reason Rhys and Lucien were pissed at each other was essentially because of her.

“I have to make sure things are in place,” Rhys said, before pressing a gentle kiss to her mouth. “Good luck, Feyre darling.”

And then he turned to where Lucien was now standing at the door, and he kissed him too.

“You’re a terrible bloody grump, you know that?” Rhys said before leaving.

“He’s right,” Feyre said.

“Yeah, I know,” Lucien admitted. He shoved his hand in his pocket, surveying her bedroom. He picked up a trinket from her dresser and weighed it in his palm aimlessly.

“Lucien.”

“Yeah _, I know_ , I’m being a twat. I’ll work on it.”

“You’re fucking impossible sometimes,” she breathed out, stepping carefully towards him. “You can’t blame me for wanting to take back some control from this situation.”

“I’m not blaming you. I tend to project my feelings of anger on everything but the source because that’s the only thing I can do.”

That week, Lucien had forced himself to maintain the civility he had with his boss in spite of the situation. It seemed to be chipping away at him.

She shook her head. “You’re going to need to find some healthier coping mechanisms.”

Their eyes met.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, shaking his head. “I just feel so fucking useless.”

“I can tell.”

She stepped towards him, cautiously reaching out to tangle her hand in his.

“Listen,” she sighed. “You’re not useless. You’ve helped me a lot this week. Keeping Tamlin out of my way at work, letting me work in your office, worrying over me when Rhys seems to have far too much confidence in me.”

For a moment, she was caught in that exact worried stare of Lucien’s, his eyes a burnished brown. His mouth seemed to be set in a permanent frown.

But his hand tightened on hers.

“You can stay here until we get back?” she proposed.

He nodded, letting a small smile touch his lips. A small victory.

“You look fucking gorgeous, by the way,” he said, bracing his hands on her waist. “I’m half inclined to tie you up and have my way with you instead.”

Heat flushed through her cheeks. They had yet to use anything on her. Lucien had tied up Rhys on Tuesday evening, to give a taste of the ropes, quite literally. She had spent her days fantasising about it between emails and reports.

“As appealing as that sounds, I have a date with a blonde haired pillock who holds my career in his hands.”

Rhys called for her from outside and she kissed Lucien goodbye.

***

Often, Feyre went on dates with guys for the primary objective of getting laid. Sometimes, there would be the odd guy who she would want to see again, because they were funny or charming. Not ever, however, had she walked into a bar with a wire taped under her blouse to see if her blackmailer had anything interesting to say about his personal life. Like casually dipping into the illegal arms trade, perhaps.

“Feyre!”

She cringed at his voice but put on her best smile as Tamlin motioned her over to a space at the bar.

He was already sitting, already drinking a whiskey neat.  _Fuck_ , she could be doing with one of them right now.

His hair was slicked back, wearing the same suit as he had earlier that day, though now without a tie and a few top buttons undone.

It was a fancy bar, one that seemed more like a gentleman’s club than anything considering the vast amount of businessmen meeting for some Friday night drinking and football. It’s probably why she had never stepped foot in a place like this. Tamlin’s choice.

“Tamlin,” she greeted, trying to force the shakiness out of it, aware that her voice was being heard by at least three people across the street.

“You look beautiful,” he said, giving her a long appraising look from where he sat, leaning casually against the bar.

“Thanks.”

She forced herself to sit in the next empty stool, turning to face the bar where she glimpsed Nuala. She settled a bit at the sight of an ally.

Tamlin called Nuala over with a flick of the fingers.

“Whisk-“ Feyre was abruptly cut off by none other.

“Another whiskey neat and a rosé, if you would,” Tamlin said.

She ground her teeth together. “I didn’t take you for a rosé type of guy,” she joked.

“I’m not, but I guessed you were a rosé type of woman.”

The truth was, yes, Feyre loved some rosé on a summers evening while she pretended to be healthy by eating a salad, but today was not one of those days.

“I was actually going to ask for-“

“So how did you become an architect, Feyre?”

Feyre glared, unable to comprehend how bad this might have been.

 _Stay calm,_ Rhys said into her earpiece.  _I know how much you want to spill rosé into his lap, but focus. We can ruin his life later._

She forgot that he was there, in her ear, hearing everything that was happening, probably seeing everything from the CCTV in the corner.

So, listening to Rhys’ instructions, she put on her best smile and spoke.

***

Feyre flattened her back against the bathroom door. “Jesus fuck, that man is painfully intolerable.”

_We know, Mor said she would greatly enjoy bathing in his blood._

She chuckled, the rosé catching up on her. “Please tell me at least some of that could be considered useful.”

_Nothing that we don’t already know. Asides the importance of Ianthe. We’re not going to underestimate her. Try bringing up his ambitions again._

So far, Feyre had managed to draw out boring details of his childhood, his white privileged rich guy view of Donald Trump and Brexit, and his relationship with Ianthe. Feyre had innocently questioned their closeness, which Tamlin admitted was previously based in romance until Ianthe wanted more than he could give. But she had proven too much of a close confident to get rid of. And suddenly Feyre was questioning whether Ianthe was a pawn at all, but a player of the game.

“Okay. But I need to pee first. I drank that rose a bit too quick. Can you turn the mic off?”

_Drinking on the job, darling?_

“Oh fuck you, you would be drinking too.”

 _Touché._   _The mic is off, do your business. I will turn it back on in two minutes._

Feyre was quick to do her ‘business’. She stood for a few moments in front of the mirror, trying to put herself together, trying to put on her best smile. Her hands were clammy from anxiety. She was not used to masks. She had lived her childhood being as blunt as possible because her parents saw through every façade she tried to put on.

And now, here she was trying to get an upper hand over a creepy superior while listening to a leader of a black ops operation in her ear who she happened to be sleeping with.

 _Feyre_?

“Yeah, I’m done.”

_You still okay to carry on?_

“Yeah, yeah. It’s just weird…to have you in my head like this.”

_Your thoughts of Lucien and I are positively scandalous._

She choked. “Please tell me you’re taking the piss.”

_Do you really think that we have the equipment to read thoughts?_

“The government are shady as fuck, maybe.”

A laugh.  _True_.

“I need to go back in, pray for me.”

_Our father, thou art in heaven, hallow-_

“I hope you can sense how hard I am rolling my eyes right now.”

He laughed.  _Get back to work, agent._

And with that, Feyre mustered the courage to return to Tamlin.

He had ordered another glass of rosé. She took sips rather than gulps, wary of heavy sensation in her bones.

Just as she readied herself for covert interrogation, Tamlin said, “So, you’ve met the infamous Rhysand Spera.”

“Infamous?” she pursed her lips together. “I myself would not attach such an adjective to him.”

“He seemed to have charmed you over last week at your dinner with my vice.”

This was something she was not expecting.

“Well, yes. Rhysand is a very charming man.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Tamlin muttered. “I know you’re friendly with Lucien, Feyre. But I advise you stay away from Rhysand Spera. His reputation is by no means untarnished.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was talking about  _business_  Rhys or  _government operative_ Rhys, she was betting on the former. Tamlin couldn’t possibly know of Rhys’ true occupation.

“I’m sure no reputation in this business world of yours is squeaky clean, Tamlin. There are few men of power who don’t commit abuses.” Her voice was bitter, unintentionally so. And she regretted it the moment the words left her lips.

Tamlin seemed to catch her accusation, as his knuckles tightened on his glass. That was the only thing that suggested his guilt.

He smiled, “I’m only looking out for you, Feyre.”

“Like you look out for Lucien?”

“I’ve informed Lucien on my thoughts on dating a character as serpentine as Rhysand. But his personal relationships are not my concern.”

“But  _my_  personal relationships are?”

Something dark flickered behind those eyes. “I have come to care for you, Feyre. I’m only warning you, like I have Lucien.”

She swallowed back a scream of frustration. “Your concern is unwarranted. I’m perfectly capable of making my own judgements of character. But I thank you for your insight.”

It had suddenly become very formal. Each word carefully chosen.

She moved on quickly, grappling for words. “Your ambitions must be high, you know, new offices in London, Birmingham, Manchester…”

Tamlin quickly followed her line of conversation. Smiling slowly as the topic appealed to his ego. “Oh you know, with the expansions, bigger and better investments, I’m looking to be one of the richest men in Europe. I won’t stop until then.”

“You’re going international?”

He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Well, I can’t really disclose what’s not confirmed. But yes.”

_Good girl. Keep him going._

She tried not to respond to the praise that reminded her too much of silken sheets and filthy promises.

Feyre opened her mouth but was interrupted by a phone ringing. It wasn’t hers. She had turned it off.

A grimace crossed Tamlin’s face as he slipped his phone from his pocket. He seemed to freeze as he looked at the screen, face blanching.

It was a brief second her eyes held glimpse of the phone, but it was enough to make out the caller ID.

“I’m going to have to take this Feyre, please excuse me.”

She nodded as he rushed from his seat to the exit.

Picking up her glass, she murmured, “Does Hybern mean anything to you?”

_No. Not a name that we have come across. He seems important enough for Tamlin to drop everything and run. Mor’s already hacking into the call._

“Where is he now, outside?”

_Yes. Cerridwen has eyes on him. He’s pacing. Anxious._

She swallowed, briefly finding Cassian’s eyes across the bar. He winked, and she relaxed slightly. A group of men roared in the corner, beer spilling onto their shirt sleeves as they cheered and chanted at the TV where the football was playing.

She looked to behind the bar where Nuala was handling some orders, though she gave Feyre a small smile.

“Keep speaking to me, please,” she murmured into her drink. She needed a dose of Rhys’ voice again. It felt too lonely, sitting there, sipping on her wine, in a den of rowdy men.

_You’re doing well, Feyre._

“I didn’t know you had accumulated an infamous reputation.”

_I have. I used to work with Tamlin. The financial district is riddled with corruption. It was the same time I was hired for the government to investigate fraud. I’ve had to live among the embezzlers and money launderers for a long time. One of those embezzlers was Tamlin’s father, who spent a lot of the Spring Courts profits on pretty holiday villas in Thailand and a shitload of cocaine._

“And now you’ve moved on from fraudsters to warmongers,” she murmured.

 _You could say I got promoted._   _Heads up, he’s coming back in. It was a short call. Mor couldn’t hack it in time._

A hand braced itself on her shoulder and she suppressed the flinch, only barely.

“Sorry about that, Feyre,” he said. He returned to his stool, taking a long gulp of his whiskey and ordering another.

“Business?” she asked.

“Well, yes, you could say that.”

An awkward silence fell upon them and she blurted out, desperate to fill the air. “You were telling me about going international?”

But Tamlin said, “Enough of me. I’ve barely touched upon the enigma that is you, Feyre.”

“Oh, well, there is nothing really to tell-“

And then his hand was on her knee. “What lies you speak of.”

Out of sheer panic, her eyes fleeted to behind Tamlin’s shoulder, where she saw Cassian in his business suit, drinking a pint and watching the football on the TV. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and in his she saw a promise that he would get her out of there in 5 seconds flat if she said the word.

She wouldn’t have a scene. She could handle this.

Feyre swallowed, “Well, what would you like to know.”

“I would like to know what you look like completely bare, sprawled out on my bed.”

He smiled, like he thought the whole proposition was sexy. She forced down the sudden revulsion.

 _Say the words, Feyre,_ Rhys said.

“I think I better be heading home,” she said. Pulling out her purse and placing a tenner on the bar. She didn’t want him thinking she owed him anything.

“Woah, hold on, no need to be rude,” he protested.

Feyre slapped his hand from her knee, a fleeting moment of satisfaction.

She was suddenly riding on lost patience. “Why am I here Tamlin? Why now, why me?”

The smile that spread across his face was nothing short of serpentine.

“Because I find you an exceptionally attractive woman.”

“You couldn’t have just asked me out without threatening me?”

A flicker in his jaw was the only betrayal of annoyance.

“You want to know the truth?” he asked nonchalantly, taking a sip of his drink.

“Yes,” she gritted out.

“Because I’ve seen you with my vice, Feyre.” He rubbed his chin, gazing down at her. “And the way he looks at you, no matter how much you deny it.”

She scoffed, unable to help herself. “So you’re fucking jealous?”

“Now, now,” Tamlin murmured, deceptively calm. “Behave yourself.”

 _Breathe, Feyre,_  said Rhys.

Feyre let out a shaky breath of barely contained fury. “I don’t understand. What are your motivations in blackmailing me?”

Tamlin’s hand slapped itself down on the bar beside her and she flinched.  

“Your accusations are futile. I’ll have you know, Feyre, I’m a successful man, I have a wide pool of women to pick from. Yet, I chose you. All while giving you an opportunity. A safety net, as such.”

He made it seem like she should be taking it as a compliment.

His diversions confirmed her growing suspicions that there was a bigger picture here. There were underlying reasons for why she was forced to sit here and be the target of Tamlin’s advances that went beyond his apparent attraction for her. 

_Feyre, let us get you out of there._

Feyre ignored Rhys in her ear, she would not have a scene.

“So, if I walk away right now, you will not let the unfortunate events of this evening taint the merit of my work?” she challenged.

A few seconds passed, where Tamlin glared deep into her eyes. “I didn’t realise that you were so unwilling to come tonight.”

“I guess I didn’t have a choice when you warned me of  _consequences_  if I didn’t comply.”

He said nothing.

“Nothing to say, Tamlin?” a sudden malicious smile overtook her face. Why she felt victorious in that moment was unknown to her, perhaps it was the sensation of backing Tamlin into a corner rendering him incapable of thought. “You will regret your attempts to manipulate me.”

“Manipulate you? If you want to know, I’m trying to protect you.”

She stood from the stool, snatching her bag from the floor. Just when she was about to leave, a hand yanked her back by her wrist. It was a discreet touch that didn’t draw the attention from the bustling bar.

“Think about what you’re doing, Feyre,” Tamlin warned, now standing, using his height to intimidate her further.

But Feyre was in four-inch heels.

“What? Are you going to blackmail me into having sex with you now? Are you that desperate to bed me?” she spat, louder than she should have. A few men turned their heads, noticing the tightened hand on her wrist.

Tamlin loosened his grasp, having the nerve to look a little guilty. She wrenched herself away and marched out of the bar with a speed seemingly impossible in the heels she was wearing, but she did it.

***

After debriefing, Mor’s praise and Cassian’s bear hug, Feyre felt the empowerment dissipate, leaving her anxious and worried of her next encounters with her superior.

“Tell Azriel to look into what and who Hybern is, as well as the possibilities of the Spring Court going overseas,” said Rhys, leaning over Mor’s shoulder where she typed rapidly at a laptop.

Feyre leaned against a wall of the random vacated flat across the road from the bar. Azriel seemed to be another of their operation that she hadn’t yet met, but whom Feyre recognised from Rhys’ stories of his family.

She was silent while they discussed leads, Tamlin’s evident distrust of Rhys, Tamlin’s murky motivations for blackmailing her in the first place.

The exhaustion began to creep in. The adrenaline of the night was catching up with her limbs and her feet began to throb.

The next moment, Rhys was before her and he seemed to notice her silence and recognised the anxiety and exhaustion behind it. His hands met her arms and he rubbed at them, to generate heat or comfort, or both.

“I’m going to take Feyre home,” he said, looking into her eyes, probably reading her thoughts considering he seemed to have a knack for it. She thanked him mentally.

He turned his head to Cassian and Mor who were murmuring to one another in hushed tones.

“Mor, Cass-“

“Yeah, we’ll pack up,” said Mor. “But I’m taking the weekend off.” Her lips split into a grin that looked as if she knew Rhys did not have a say in the matter.

Feyre thanked Mor and Cassian. They waved her off, told her it was their responsibility to help dig up dirt on the real villains, especially those of a friend.

She had barely known them for five days and they already considered her as friends.

It was a nice feeling.

Rhys drove her home in an ‘inconspicuous’ BMW. It wasn’t inconspicuous according to her, it was far too expensive, but Rhys  _insisted_  it was his incognito car.

“Why do you think Tamlin said he was trying to protect me?” asked Feyre, sinking into the leather seat.

“Honestly? I’m uncertain. Perhaps he thinks I’m a threat to you.”

“The only threat you have over me is your terrible cooking and crushing hugs.”

Rhys stared ahead, smiling. Though it quickly dissipated. “What you must know, Feyre, is that when you signed those disclosure agreements, you are tied to me. You know things that you shouldn’t, about this operation, about infamous criminals. Quite frankly, my presence in your life is a threat.”

“I know what I signed up for.”

_Did she?_

A muscle in his jaw tensed. “I want you to know that yours and Lucien’s safety will always be my priority.”

She nodded, placing a hand on his knee over the console. He placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed.

Then, she took off her shoes and curled up in the seat, content in dozing.

A hand shook gently at her shoulder and she opened her eyes to find Rhys was at her car door. Feyre realised they had made it to her street.

“Come on, my love, let’s get you home.”

She smiled sleepily at the endearment. He helped her get out of the car before noticing her bare feet, so Rhys turned and crouched.

“Ever the gentleman,” she laughed, and managed to jump onto his back. His hands hooking under her knees as she wrapped her arms over his shoulders.

“Anything for you, milady.”

As he began to walk to her flat, she found herself pressing a kiss to his neck. His fingers tightened on her legs.

“What are you thinking of, Feyre?”

She should be thinking of collapsing into bed but instead she was thinking of completely inappropriate thoughts that involved Rhys’ fingers between her thighs. Or Lucien’s. Preferably both, alternating. She turned her head to nestle into his neck, breathing in his cologne.

“Thoughts of utter depravity,” she admitted.

“Hmmm, I hope that involves me at least,” he teased. Upon reaching her door, she rummaged through her bag over his shoulder. He opened the door as soon as she handed him her keys.

“It does. And Lucien. And a bed.”

Rhys sucked in some air. “Lucien and a bed? I love it when you talk dirty to me, Feyre.”

He reached the stairs, and he was completely unphased by carrying another person on his back as he climbed them. It wasn’t surprising.

Upon entering her flat, Rhys set her down. She kissed his cheek in thanks before setting off to the living room in search of Lucien.

She found him asleep on her sofa with Graham Norton playing on the TV.

“Wow, he’s fucking adorable,” she said, standing over him. Rhys came to her side, draping an arm across her shoulders.

“I know. You wouldn’t be able to guess that he likes to tie people up in the bedroom with a face like that.”

“I can fucking hear you,” Lucien muttered, turning to lie on his back. He opened his eyes warily as he looked up at them.

Rhys sat himself on the edge of the sofa and brushed some hair from his face.

“It went well,” said Rhys, as Lucien gave him a long, pointed look. “New information was revealed. How useful it will be we can only guess.”

Feyre paced around the coffee table.

Rhys continued, “Feyre showed an exceptional skill for the field.”

“What about Tamlin?” Lucien questioned, “Please tell me he’s no longer going to hold anything against her.”

There was a pause, and Rhys shared a look with her before saying, “We don’t know. Let’s just say that the date ended with Tamlin thinking he could exploit that little bit more. His resort to blackmail is still cloudy. Whether he holds grudges, or he will follow through on his threats, then it seems I will have to take extra measures.”

Lucien sat up, running a hand down his face. He muttered, “I hope those extra measures are violent.”

Feyre didn’t think he was serious, yet Rhys said nothing.

Then, Feyre’s eyes met Lucien’s.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, just tired. Very tired.”

He stood himself up. “Shit, sorry Fey. We should go-“

“No!” she blurted out. “Um.”

She fidgeted under their gaze. It was difficult to measure the boundaries. She had spent nearly every evening that week round theirs, a couple of nights too. Those nights always lead to sex, always led to her feeling exhausted but satisfied the next morning. But asking them to stay the night, to merely sleep, was maybe crossing a line into the territory of something more. That, maybe, she could be considered more than a conquest.

“Feyre,” Rhys asked slowly, standing up as he did so. “Do you want us to stay the night?”

Closing her eyes, she thought herself so fucking stupid. She had become far too attached to this little fantasy that she had created for herself, where this could work long term.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t- I don’t mean to overstep,” she didn’t dare look at them, finding solace in the carpet. “I’m too tired to give you sex so I shouldn’t even ask-“

“I’m going to stop you right there, Feyre,” said Lucien, and he was before her, eyes wide and searching. He gripped her chin with gentle fingers. “Because  _obviously_  Rhys and I haven’t done a good enough job in drilling into that beautiful head of yours that we’re not dating you to just have sex.”

“Oh?” she squeaked.  _Dating_. She hadn’t been calling it that. Just fucking her colleague and his boyfriend for the shits and gigs.

“Feyre, darling,” Rhys was also before her now, taking her hand in his. He shared a brief look with Lucien before saying, “We’re  _enamoured_ with you.”

 _Now_  she felt silly. Here she was, thinking that she was this outsider trying to pry her way into this little world of theirs, but in fact she had already been welcomed.

She grinned. “Enamoured?”

She liked that word, very much.

“Would you like further clarification?” Rhys teased, brushing his thumb over her knuckles.

“I think she would,” murmured Lucien, reaching to caress a hand through her hair.

_Oh Cauldron, fucking smite her down now._

Rhys pulled away, placing a dramatic hand to his head. “Oh, fair maiden, we are beguiled by thine divine beauty and adorable obsession over windows and brickwork.”

She slapped at his shoulder, erupting into laughter.

“You’re such a  _dork_ ,” she spluttered out.

“Says the one who sent a picture in the group chat of a fancy light fitting with the caption  _this turned me on,”_ Rhys protested. “This is what it’s like dating an architect.”

“You’re both walking embarrassments, why am I willing to be with either of you,” interjected Lucien.

Feyre and Rhys both turned to face Lucien, with matching faces that said,  _we have so much dirt on you that we suggest you should shut up._

Lucien grinned.

They went to bed soon after Feyre collapsed from laughter because of Rhys’ serenading.

They quickly found that a double bed was far too small for three tall adults, and Feyre prepared herself for a potentially sweaty night with Rhys and Lucien squishing her on both sides.

“This is cosy,” said Rhys.

Feyre tucked her head further against Rhys’ shoulder.

“If it gets too cramped then we will just push Rhys on the floor,” Lucien murmured behind her.

“Such collaborative attempts will do neither of you any favours,” Rhys warned.

Lucien pressed himself further against her back. “Your threats don’t phase us, Spera.”

“I threaten to push you both out of bed if you don’t shut up,” she broke out, cheeks hurting.

“Now, now, was that even a threat?” Lucien’s hand pressed into her side where they found a terrible weakness of hers.

She yelped, her leg reflexing and accidentally kicking Rhys.

A second yelp echoed through the room.

After a few minutes of bickering like teenagers at a sleepover, they settled into a calm silence.

Feyre felt her eyes close, tiredness seeping through her bones. Lips were pressed to her forehead. Then her cheek. Then arms were tightened around her.

She fell asleep to the sound of murmurs.


	8. Bed frames and locked doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning, this chapter is veeeeeeeeeeeeeeery NSFW

Feyre woke to the sound of the front door closing. The space of the bed to her right was empty when she reached out a hand to find Lucien. Rhys was breathing softly against the back of her neck, his body a heavy blanket of warmth against her.

It took her a few moments to gather her bearings before reaching for her phone. It was 8:00. There was also a note that read:

_Just gone out to pick up a few things. Will be back in a bit x_

She rolled back over, turning to face Rhys who opened his eyes.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

He only smiled sleepily, pulling her closer.

They woke up unhurried. Rhys’ fingers drew patterns on her skin as they talked about romance novels and places they want to go in the world. It was too early to think of productivity. It was a mystery why and how Lucien had left to brace the cold of the approaching winter.

“Iceland,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to go Iceland.”

She stood finally from the bed, after untangling herself from Rhys’ grasp. Rhys watched, pouting.

“To see the Aurora?”

“Yes. Honestly, I would go anywhere to get away from the claustrophobia of London.”

She tied her hair up in the mirror in attempt to tame it. Through the mirror, she watched Rhys’ eyes roam. She was only wearing lacey underwear and a t-shirt that was definitely not long enough.

“I’ve never really considered London like that,” he finally said.

Feyre slipped into her en suite, grabbing her toothbrush.

“Well that’s because you’ve lived in cities all your life. You should come to Yorkshire, the food is better, and we’re way more politer,” she said before shoving her toothbrush in her mouth.

He barked out a laugh. “I like the food here!”

She slipped into the doorway, and said around her toothbrush, “That’s because you’re a snob.”

Another laugh, and he got out of bed. Just seeing him in his briefs made it hard to focus on brushing.

He caught her around her waist, she yelped, trying not to embarrass herself by dribbling toothpaste everywhere.

“A snob, ay?” he murmured into her ear.

She pushed him away, spitting in the sink before saying, “You took me to the Ritz on our first date.”

His eyes glittered. “I like to make a good impression.”

“You think an 80k BMW is an inconspicuous car.”

“It’s black. It’s pretty ordinary.”

She shook her head, smiling around her toothbrush. Rhys joined her, and they stared at one another as they brushed their teeth like it was a competition on who could make the other crack.

The moment they were done, Rhys was tugging her against him and capturing her lips with his desperately.

He pulled away slightly, hands in her hair to say, “I think Lucien and I would love to go up north with you at some point.”

“Yeah?”

“It would be nice to see you in your natural habitat. At one with your true accent and incapable of pronouncing To’s. Do you all wear flat caps?”

She snorted. “You’re such an idiot.”

Then their mouths met again, more softly this time, deceptively sweet.

At some point, they had moved to the bed. She couldn’t remember when, only that now, Rhys was on top of her, his hips nestled against her own. She liked the weight of his body over hers, the way his hand travelled up her thigh to her side.

His mouth hadn’t left hers, mostly because she was gripping his hair, thoroughly enjoying the caress of his lips and tongue.

Her hips moved against his, making him sigh into her mouth.

As he went to move away, to move down her body, she tugged him back up. He raised his brow at her.

“No,” she pleaded, wrapping her arms around his neck, kissing him chastely. “I like it when you stay close to me.”

“Okay,” he said softly.

But then his hips thrust against hers once more, erratic and hard.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, her jaw, her neck. He was uncontrolled like this, like his mouth wanted to kiss her everywhere at once. His hands were just as uncontrolled as he slid the t-shirt up her torso, not even taking it off. She whimpered as his mouth found her breast.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she whispered, gripping his hair harder, pulling at the roots until his moan seeped into her skin. She found out that he liked that when she rode him one Thursday evening on his sofa.

When his fingers pushed aside her underwear to meet her cunt, her fingers gripped the back of his neck to anchor herself. Rhys was a quick learner and was able to navigate his fingers to where she needed them most with expert ease.

“You’re so wet for me, Feyre.”

His voice was so smooth and soft that it almost melted into her skin.

Then he found a spot that had her back arching.

“Right there?” he murmured.

She nodded, squeezing her eyes closed as his fingers quickened their circles. He categorised each of her breaths and moans, his nose brushing hers, his breath hot as he kissed her desperately.

Since they discovered that she found it difficult to get off on penetration alone, they had made it their mission to know how she ticked, to know exactly where to rub and press their fingers and tongues until she was writhing, begging for release.

“God, you look so good like this.”

“Harder,” she gasped, gripping his arms.

It was only a matter of seconds after obliging did she unravel on his fingers, moaning and rocking her hips against his hand.

“I brought breakfast.”

Feyre managed to open her eyes to see Lucien leaning against the door frame past Rhys’ shoulder.

“How nice of you to join us,” said Rhys, kissing the corner of her mouth before he rolled off her to lie on his side. He didn’t stop his touches, however, drawing lazy circles on her lower stomach with fingers still coated in her.

She turned her face into Rhys shoulder, trying to catch her breath.  

Her hand gripped the sheets as Lucien’s fingers traced up her legs almost casually as he approached. His hand climbed higher, stroking a few times over her soaked underwear that Rhys hadn’t bothered to take off. She felt him lean over her from where he stood at the edge of the bed, that hand now gently squeezing at her breast.

She shivered out of anticipation of the deep timber of his voice.

“Look at me, angel,” his fingers taking her face from the safety of Rhys’ shoulder. She looked at him, the darkened state of his eyes. He pressed a very gentle kiss to her lips, a mere brush of the lips.

Her eyes flickered close as Rhys’ hand ventured lower once again.

“Can we tie you up?” he asked lowly in her ear.

Feyre had been preparing for that question, and it was difficult to procure an answer when Rhys was stroking her.

“Yeah,” she breathed.

“What was that?” Lucien asked, his thumb brushed her cheek.

“Yes,  _please_.”

“Better.”

“Lucien,” Rhys said, “We don’t have our stuff.”

“We can improvise.”

Feyre swallowed, watching Lucien rise back to his full height.

The anticipation ate away at her to the point that she began to shiver. Rhys pulled her closer, brushing a soothing hand through her hair, as if sensing her nerves. He pressed lingering kisses to her skin.

Lucien returned with Rhys’ tie from the night before. He took her wrists so softly that she was growing impatient with how slow this whole process was going.

“Hold on to that for me, love,” he ordered. Her fingers gripped the cold metal of one of the bars of the bedframe.  _A convenient bed frame for kinky boyfriends._

She mentally slapped herself for using the term boyfriends. Forever getting ahead of herself.

Bracing his hands on her waist, Lucien slid her body up the bed slightly before tying her wrists to the bedframe as if it were an art form.

Rhys placed another pillow under her head. They were fussing.

When Lucien was finished, she tested the knot by pulling on it slightly. It held still.

“How’s that? Do you need it tighter or looser?” He sat at the edge of the bed.

This was the serious part, Lucien was watching her reaction.

“It’s fine.” It was. She could sense the foreboding strain that it would have on her arms for being held above her head, but she was willing to welcome the dull ache.

A part of her panicked a little bit at the vulnerability. Lucien must have seen it in her eyes, the instinctual sense of panic.

“Say the word and it’s off, Feyre,” he said seriously. In no possible universe did she not believe that. That inclination of trust was too strong to be contended with slight insecurity.

“I’m okay, just, getting used to it.”

“Keep talking to us,” Rhys said. “Tell us if you feel any discomfort.”

She nodded, smiled a reassuring smile.

“Now what?” Feyre whispered, looking between them.

Rhys’ hand resting lazily on her inner thigh was the only touch to anchor herself with.

“Now,” murmured Lucien, dragging his gaze down her body, “We test how much patience Feyre Archeron truly has.”

Rhys withdrew his touch. She opened her mouth to protest but Lucien raised a brow, as if daring her to do so.

She closed her mouth, swallowing the anticipation, turning to Rhys to see if he would be more lenient.

However, he only sent her a sinful smile.

“Do you know anything about orgasm denial?” Rhys asked.

She blinked. “It’s what it says on the tin really, isn’t it?”

Lucien snorted, absently tracing his fingers along the stretch marks of her inner thigh. “Correct. But we won’t do it if you don’t fancy.”

“So…every time I get close…you stop. How long does this go on for?”

“Until you’re a writhing, begging, pretty little mess.”

“So essentially, until we say so,” said Rhys. “But it will be the best orgasm of your life. I promise.”

She tugged at her restraints, testing the hold of them once again. Her mouth was dry.

“Any objections?” asked Rhys.

_Yes, actually, I thought as soon you were going to tie me up I was going to get dick downed double time off the bat._

“No. But I’m holding you to that. This better be the best orgasm of my life or I’m suing.”

“She’s so cute when she tries to threaten us,” said Rhys.

“She is isn’t she,” Lucien’s hand brushed the valley between her breasts. “Especially when she gets all flushed like this.” He smirked at his boyfriend, sharing a glance that she was not part of.

She wanted to tell them to stop talking about her like she wasn’t there when she was tied up between them wearing nothing but a soaked pair of underwear.

Her breath hitched as Lucien’s fingers found her cunt, circling briefly before bringing his fingers to her mouth where he traced the wetness on her lips.

She throbbed at the darkness of his eyes, how they were glazed over by lust that promised quaking thighs and hitched breaths.

Her thighs rubbed together, trying to remember the sensation of wandering hands.

Then fingers were on her jaw, and Rhys kissed the taste off her lips.

A haziness settled in her mind, as Rhys gently moved his mouth against hers. She accepted her state of submission, suddenly willing to take anything that they would give her.

Rhys broke away and a protest formed on her tongue.

But he asked, “Do you happen to have a vibrator lying around anywhere, darling?”

“Third draw on the bedside table,” she said quietly, wanting him to kiss her again.

Lucien whistled as he opened it. His hair fell in his eyes as he reached down. “Purple, blue, or pink?”

It felt exceptionally intimate with Lucien rifling through that draw.

“Purple,” she said. “You’re really going to draw this out, aren’t you?”

“Are you okay with that?” Rhys asked, brushing some hair from her face.

“I-I don’t know.” She was soaked and throbbing already, she wasn’t quite certain whether she would enjoy it, relenting complete control of her pleasure to two men who could touch her and stop touching her at will. She had never tested her limits like this. Unknown territory.

“Feyre, baby,” Lucien assured, squeezing her waist. “If you don’t like this at any point and want to stop, then you say the safe word, okay? You don’t need to give us a reason. You can even say it now if you want to.”

She remembered where she was, who she was with. These were not just two random men. This was Lucien and Rhys, who went to extra lengths to prioritise her comfort, to remind her who was really in control.

She wanted them to teach her things about pleasure that she didn’t know existed.

“No, please,” she said finally. “Reduce me to a writhing, begging mess.”

Lucien, still frustratingly dressed, smiled darkly. He turned on the purple vibrator in his hand.

A breath caught in her throat.

“Our pleasure,” he said.

_Truly, utterly fucked._

***

The next week, Feyre did not have to worry herself over Tamlin, because he was away on an unscheduled business trip for the unforeseeable future.

Lucien was being run down, with the extra weight of Tamlin’s work in his absence, he barely had time to breathe.

Feyre chose not to bother him, forcing herself to do her own work. Trying not to let her memories of the weekend interrupt her train of thought. Heat tinted her cheeks at how much she had begged and pleaded shamelessly. She tried to hold off for the first few times they pulled her to the edge with her own vibrator. But then she grew impatient. And she begged while she watched as Lucien fucked Rhys. Even when they decided to have a late breakfast and they ended up feeding her fresh fruit like some worshipped goddess who was tied to a bed frame. All the while, they played with her body, discovering, pressing, teasing. When they finally let her come, it was on Lucien’s tongue with Rhys whispering utter filth in her ear. It was safe to say she didn’t need to sue them.

_Stop getting yourself turned on at work, Feyre. For fucks sake._

Somehow, Feyre’s conscious and unconscious thoughts were consumed by them, to the point that she craved their touch like she craved a fucking cheeseboard at Christmas.

Then her phone rang saving herself from sinful thoughts, and the caller made inwardly sigh.

She made her way to the toilets and locked herself in a cubicle before answering.

“Hello, Elain,” she greeted.

“Feyre! Hey! How are you?”

It was Wednesday afternoon, Elain knew she was working.

“Good. How are you and the baby?”

Feyre leaned herself back against a cubicle wall, where over a week before she was making out with Lucien.

_Irrelevant._

“We’re both great!” Elain exclaimed, awfully chipper. “I know you must be working Feyre, but I just had to let you know before we leave. We’ll be moving down to London tomorrow.”

“Wow,” Feyre breathed. “That was quick.”

“I know. Greyson starts his new job next week, so we were pressed for time. Nesta will be coming to stay with us until she finds her own place.”

Feyre didn’t know why Elain had to call her. This information would have been just fine in a text format.  _Dammit Feyre, stop being the bitch sister._

“Um, that’s great Elain. Good luck with moving.”

“So we will see you soon? We’re planning to have a house warming party two weeks Saturday, we would love it if you and your new man could come!” There was a slight pause. “I mean…new men. But mum’s coming, and dad. So maybe just…man? But I don’t care if you bring them both…honestly.”

“But you care what mum thinks if I bring both,” muttered Feyre, rubbing the ache at her temples.

It was one thing telling her sisters about her new love life, it was another telling her divorced parents. She didn’t think her alcoholic father would give much of a damn, probably pretend to be overprotective. Though her mother was a different story. Feyre was certain her mother would disown her. Not like she already hadn’t.

“You know how mum is, Feyre,” said Elain.

“Yeah, she’s Satan’s fucking stuck up mother.”

“ _Feyre._ ” The tone was both reprimanding and frustrated.

“What? She is.”

“Please behave yourself.” The words made her flinch, reminding her of Tamlin’s advances and his deceptively calm fury when she called him out.

“I’ve got to get back to work, Elain.”

“Sure, I will send you the details. See you later lovey!”

Feyre didn’t even say bye, and simply ended the call.

 _Behave yourself._  Like she was a child. And a problematic child at that, that was untrustworthy and needed to be controlled.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to remain calm.

When she arrived back at her desk, Alis peeked her head over into her cubicle.

“Feyre, Mr Vanserra wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks, Alis.” Without hesitating she walked quickly to his office, needing to vent in some form or another.

It seemed that she wasn’t the only one needing to vent. As she found Lucien lying on the floor behind his desk, flat on his back. He was staring up at the ceiling.

Feyre locked the door behind her. The room was a mess, paper sprawled out over the desk, a smashed-up landline on the floor, file cabinets opened haphazardly.

“Lucien?”

She fought the urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all. She rounded his desk to stand at his feet.

“Lucien, what are you doing on the floor?”

“I’m resigning.”

“ _What?_ ”

She watched his throat bob. He continued to stare at the ceiling. “I can’t do this shit. I have 320 emails in my inbox flagged as urgent. I’ve been getting phone calls every five minutes, one of which was my father.”

“Is that why there’s a broken phone on the floor?”

Lucien’s father was an exceptionally touchy subject for him, Feyre was certain he had suffered some childhood abuse though he had yet to disclose any details. Her heart ached.

“No, I tripped over the stupid fucking shitting wires and I got mad at existence, so I may have stomped on it a bit,” he explained.

“A bit,” she deadpanned, eyeing the pile of rubble that once was a phone.

He groaned. “I have three meetings scheduled in the same hour.  _The same fucking hour_ , Feyre. Tamlin has left me to die a slow death.”

“So, what? You’re going to get this all sorted by taking a nap?”

His eyes snapped to hers. “Maybe.”

She sighed before deciding to join him on the floor. She lay on her back beside him, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling tiles.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m joining your existential crisis.”

He barked out a tight laugh, before taking her hand that lay between them.

“What did your father want?” she dared ask after a few moments of peaceful silence.

“To torment me. It’s been one of his hobbies for my entire existence.”

She squeezed his hand, waiting for him to continue.

“He called me to inform of my eldest brothers engagement, inviting me to a party in November that I definitely do not want to go to, but I will anyway.”

“Why?” She turned her head from the ceiling to Lucien, where his eyes were still trained above them. His jaw was clenched.

“Because my mum is going. And it’s been too long since I’ve seen her. I’ve a habit of abandoning her.”

“I’ll come with you, if you want.”

His head turned to meet her eyes then. “No, I can’t let you do that. My brothers and father are fucking monsters. I don’t want you anywhere near them.”

She tried not to sound disappointed at the rejection. “Take Rhys, then. He would be far better at protecting you.”

“No, not him either. Because then we would be subject to homophobic abuse.”

“You’re not going alone, Lucien,” she asserted. She didn’t know the details of his childhood. She didn’t know the extent of his suffering, but she was not going to take the risk of letting him walk into danger, even if it was only an engagement party. “Promise me you will take Rhys.”

“He would insist upon it anyway.”

His voice was so distant, so  _empty_  that Feyre fought against the helplessness that consumed her. It was like he withdrew to these little pockets of darkness. She empathised, knowing the familiarity of anxiety like a crushing weight.

She sat up, setting the task of drawing him out of his state.

“Well I hope you will come with me to  _my_  doom,” she said.

He raised a brow as she straddled his lap.  _Office environment be damned_.

“Your doom?”

“Yes. Elain has invited us to her house warming party the start of November, where my parents will be present.”

This got his attention, as he pushed himself up to a sitting position bringing them chest to chest. His hair was a mess, and very distracting as it fell out of his bun.

“And how do you feel about that?”

She gulped, every possible scenario of her prospective boyfriends meeting her mother ran through her head. Feyre draped her arms around Lucien’s shoulders as she considered the question.

“My dad won’t be the problem. My mum, however…” she shook her head, gazing over Lucien’s shoulder. “I feel like taking two of my…lovers to a family party will only just solidify the fact that I will never be my mother’s daughter.”

“I see,” said Lucien, his own arms wrapping around her torso.

“I was hoping we could just throw Rhys at her, so he can charm the living daylights out of her while we get drunk.”

“That,” Lucien murmured, smiling now, “sounds like a party.”

Then his mouth found hers, softly and carefully and so unlike the desperate and demanding Lucien that she was often acquainted with. His hand weaved its way through her hair, cradling her head as he brushed his tongue against hers. She didn’t know when it escalated, only that her mouth was moving fervently against his, eliciting soft moans from his mouth as she simultaneously grinded into his lap.

“I thought you were reluctant about office sex,” he gasped out as she pressed a hot kiss to his neck.

She brought their faces together, smiling as their noses brushed. “I locked the door this time.”

“Clever girl.”

His praises were her undoing. Every time they slipped from his lips they sent a throb directly between her legs.

She wrenched at his belt as Lucien stroked the hair from her face.

“You’re so cute when you’re all flustered,” he mused.

She slipped her hands into his trousers and found his hardening cock. He hissed through his teeth.

“You’re so cute when you’re all flustered,” she mimicked.

He shook his head, huffing a laugh until she circled her thumb round his tip.

He pressed his forehead to her shoulder, a shuddering breath wracking through his body.

_This. This is power._

“You will be the fucking death of me,” he rasped.

They jolted at the sound of a phone ringing. It was from Feyre’s back pocket.

Without even taking her hand from his cock, she grabbed her phone to Lucien’s dismay.

“It’s Rhys.”

“ _Lovely_ ,” said Lucien as she continued to stroke at him.

“Hey Rhys,” she greeted, watching Lucien fall onto his back again, covering his face with his arms as he gritted his teeth.

“Hey babe, I hope I haven’t interrupted you.”

“Not at all,” she smiled, gripping Lucien a little bit more as she stroked from base to tip. He was scolding hot in her palm. “Just in Lucien’s office. Say hi to Rhys, foxboy.”

“Oh fuck yo-“

“He’s very tense right now.”

Lucien let out a groan.

It seemed that Rhys caught on very quickly as he chuckled lowly. “I’m sensing a little stress relief.”

“He was practically begging for it.”

Lucien sent her a glare.  _Oh how the tables have turned_.

“Actually, Rhys,” she continued, “I’m going to have to hand you over for a few moments, my mouth will be preoccupied.”

***

Only thirty minutes ago had Lucien fell into one of his depressive states, finding himself in a never-ending pit of self-pity and despair. Now, however, he was getting tossed off in his office by the woman he loved while on the phone to the man he loved.

_Thank the lord for Feyre Archeron._

Lucien grabbed the phone from Feyre’s extended hand, leaning on his forearm as she settled herself further down his legs, tugging at his trousers.

“I hope you weren’t calling for anything important, because it will have to wait,” gritted out Lucien.

Rhys voice was like silk against his wrists. “I was going to ask how about your day.”

“Well,” said Lucien, watching with anticipation as Feyre bent down to take his cock in her mouth. His hips jolted at the sensation of the warmth and wetness that enveloped him. Every muscle in his body tensed as she worked on the tip.

 _How was your day Lucien?_ He asked himself as Feyre’s tongue licked up the underside of his cock.  _She was getting awfully good at this._

Then his eyes met hers and he glanced to those pretty pink lips wrapped around his cock. He almost came on her face but knew that was something that required prior consent. “It’s been…torturous.”

Lucien heard the faint sound of a belt being undone.

He couldn’t help himself, even as he was completely at Feyre’s will. Teasing Rhys was in his nature.

“Oh Rhysand,” he tutted.

“You expect me to continue eating my bloody pasta alone in my office while I hear my boyfriend getting blown by the most delectable woman alive, yeah, no.”

Lucien was so close already, he screwed his eyes shut to try and regain some of that control. He didn’t realise how worked up he was. He wanted to grip her hair and guide her, but he needed his arms to lean on and hold the phone to his ear. Watching her was enough. More than enough. Especially as she tried to take him fully in her mouth. Just watching her try was the hottest thing he had ever seen.

That mouth of hers, that sharp and witty tongue, was going to have Lucien coming in 3 minutes flat.

“Paint a picture for me, Lucien,” Rhys demanded, “What does she look like?”

For once, Lucien struggled for words.

“She’s so fucking perfect. Ah,  _fucking Jesus God,_  I’m going to come,” Lucien breathed out in warning as Feyre sucked harder.

“I’m disappointed, you usually last a lot longer than that,” drawled Rhys.

Lucien pictured Rhys touching himself, sitting in his high leather chair, alone in his office, hand tugging and squeezing. He lost it completely, pulsing into Feyre’s mouth as he let out a strained groan.

He slumped back, phone falling from his ear as he caught his breath.

Feyre climbed up his body, smiling broadly with pink, wet, swollen lips as she looked down at him.

An angel, a damned angel that he was totally in love with.

Feyre picked up the phone from his loose grasp and said to Rhys, “I think he is going to need a minute.”

He watched the angel grin into the phone. “Poor baby.”

Rhys was no doubt complaining about being left hard and throbbing.

***

Just as Feyre was bent over the glass desk of Lucien’s office, his hand in the front of her trousers already testing how soaked she was while Rhys was getting off on the phone, there was a knock at the door.

They froze, and Feyre scrambled up, Lucien’ hastily withdrawing his hand with an angry curse.

“Who is it?”

“Mr Vanserra, your 1 o clock meetings start in ten minutes!” It was Ianthe, by the sound of her nasal voice that grated at his bones.

“Will be right there,” he yelled through the door.

“Are you taking the piss?” exclaimed Rhys through the phone. “I’m so fucking frustrated right now.”

Feyre snorted. Lucien looked to her, sighing. He pulled her towards him by her forearm.

“Come home with me tonight and I will return the favour,” he said.

She looked up at him, eyes glittering in mischief. “Don’t talk to me about favours, I love making you lose it.”

He swallowed a groan. “I will see you both later.”

He left her then, to probably continue having phone sex with Rhys on his desk chair. How he was going to focus on the next few hours were a mystery to him.

“Lucien!”

Lucien faltered in his step slightly as he felt Ianthe walk in step beside him.

“Hello, Ianthe, can’t really dally or I’m going to be late for my meetings.”

Feyre had done wonders in pulling Lucien out of that depressive state. If she wasn’t there today, Lucien probably would have gone home complaining of feeling ill.

“Oh I know. I was just wondering whether you could do me a favour.”

He huffed a sigh. “I don’t have time for this Ianthe.”

“Yet you seem to have immeasurable time with Feyre Archeron locked in your office together.”

He stopped.

“What are you insinuating?”

She stopped a couple paces ahead and turned slowly towards him. “I’m insinuating that you should do me a couple of favours if we want this little fling with the architect on the downlow. I’m sure HR would not appreciate the romantic getaways to your office.”

His anger flared, his voice like venom as he moved closer. “You think you can blackmail me, now? What kind of fucking game are you and Tamlin playing at.

“So Feyre has told you about that encounter with Tamlin…” she drawled. “And so Rhysand would also know by default, right?”

He snapped his mouth shut.

“That’s what I thought,” Ianthe said, cocking her head. “I’m going to act on my favour now. Tell Rhysand that he should question involving your little girlfriend in this ugly world of his. She doesn’t belong here.”

“You would know a lot about this ugly world, wouldn’t you Ianthe?” he murmured, low and dangerous, protective instincts put into motion.

Lucien knew Tamlin’s sudden absence was nothing to do with checking the progress on the Liverpool and Birmingham sites. He knew that the reason his workload had increased tenfold was because Tamlin had abandoned his responsibilities to the Spring Court and was doing something on the side, off the radar. Most likely with the complicity of Ianthe. He knew that Tamlin had opened some offshore accounts thanks to Azriel’s intel.

He knew that the Spring Court, a domestic transportation business was going international, working in freight and shipping. Sudden expansions were unprecedented, and Tamlin hadn’t even consulted him about them in the months prior until Feyre turned up 12 weeks ago. And he knew that Tamlin was meeting with an international war criminal.

Little pieces of the puzzle. And somehow, Tamlin was doing this without leaving a single trace on the Spring Courts own profits.

There were still gaps in his knowledge, things that Rhys was not allowed to tell him. But he knew enough to watch the snakes at his feet.

Ianthe put on a false smile.

“Be careful, Lucien. Remember, this isn’t your world either.”


	9. The L Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: more terrible alcohol decisions, proclamations of love, the next step, anxiety, silly boyfriends, very poor relations with ones mother, children, fluctuating use of greyson or grayson, the tube, seriously the tube is so filthy and gross, oh no!!!!, there’s bad guys too

“I’m in love with her,” Lucien whispered.

Rhys was silent for a moment, tucking himself further into Lucien’s side, draping himself over his boyfriend like a cat.

They were in bed; the room pitch black save the light coming from gap in the bathroom door where Feyre was brushing her teeth and humming to questionable pop songs.

“We should tell her,” said Rhys, voice low in Lucien’s ear.

“You love her too?”

“I think I knew I was going to love her from the moment I found both of you drunk on my £1000 bottle of champagne.”

The memory brought a smile to Lucien’s lips. “I want her to be our girlfriend. As in official.”

Rhys kissed his forehead sloppily, finding his hand in the dark. “Let’s do something fancy, something dramatic.”

Lucien rolled his eyes. “Of course you’d bloody want to make a spectacle out of it.”

They had drunk themselves silly that night. It was Friday, the night before Elain’s housewarming party. Cassian and Mor had come around again and Mor had outdrank them in every game possible. The intensity of shot roulette meant that they were tucked into the guest bedrooms with a sick bucket beside Cassian’s bed.

Even in the dark, Lucien felt the room spinning.

Light momentarily descended upon them as Feyre exited the bathroom, swaying slightly.

“Alright, babe?” asked Rhys.

“Nah,” she said. “I can’t fucken see.”

They watched her silhouette in the darkness blindly stumble to find the bed.

“She’s so cute when she can’t see,” Rhys murmured dreamily.

Lucien snorted. “She is ain’t she.”

“You guys are the worst boyfriends ever.”

“She’s so cute when she pretends to hate us,” said Rhys.

Feyre finally found her way to the bed, giggling uncontrollably. Her hands braced themselves on Lucien’s arm as she scrambled on the bed. She settled herself on Lucien’s other side, sprawling out like another cat. An almost naked cat. Safe to say that Lucien was grid locked. He loved it.

It slapped Lucien in the face as he registered what Feyre just said.

“Babe, did you just say  _boyfriends_ ,” he asked into her hair.

She tensed. “Oh balls, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, no, no,” said Rhys. Lucien felt Rhys reach out to find Feyre. “Please keep calling us that.”

“Really,” she whispered, her cheek squished against Lucien’s shoulder.

“Be our girlfriend, Feyre Archeron!” Rhys declared into the darkness of the room.

“So much for fancy and dramatic,” Lucien muttered.

There were a few seconds of silence until Lucien felt his shoulder become wet.

“Feyre, baby, are you  _crying_?”

“I’ve just drank my body weight in gin and you’ve asked me to be your girlfriend, of course I’m fucking crying.”

“Come here,” Rhys said. They maneuvered around, pulling Feyre in between them.

They kissed her relentlessly until her hiccups turned into broken, distorted laughs.

“I want to say the L word,” Feyre mumbled into Rhys’ shoulder.

There was a momentary pause, filled with soft breaths and beating hearts.

“Say it,” Lucien ordered, eventually, his voice gentle.

“Wait,” said Rhys, planting his hand over Feyre’s mouth. “I want to be sober when we say it.”

Their girlfriend spoke, her voice still muffled.

“I didn’t quite catch that, darling.” Rhys threw him a cheeky smirk. Through the darkness, Lucien could tell Feyre was glaring, but was making no attempt to remove his hand.

“Are you enjoying this, babe?” Lucien asked, sliding his hand down her torso, running a possessive hand down her thigh, dangerously close to the heat between her legs. He felt her muscles tense, her breath hitched against Rhys’ hand.

Lucien found Rhys’ eyes in the dark. “Maybe our darling Feyre will appreciate our collection of gags.”

They watched her silently for a reaction, though her face was mostly shadows. Rhys removed his hand slowly.

“So, we went from the L word to your collection of gags?” she eventually said, her voice thick with alcohol. Lucien could tell she was furrowing her brows. She was utterly adorable.

“Both are very important topics,” said Rhys.

“You have a collection of gags,” she giggled.

“What’s so funny?”

“You haven’t told me any jokes yet.”

Lucien snorted, pressing himself further against her side. “Oh. Ha-ha. Smartarse.”

“I L word you so bloody much,” said Rhys, smiling goofily down at her.

“I thought we were only going to say it sober, Rhysand,” Lucien pointed out, smoothing his hand along Feyre’s thigh still.

“I didn’t say it,  _foxboy._ ”

Their attention was brought back to Feyre as she blurted, “You L word me too?”

Kisses of confirmation ensued.

“We’ll say it properly when Rhys isn’t pissed off tequila,” declared Lucien, after pulling away from Rhys’ lips.

“Stupid Mor and her stupid shot games,” Rhys said, burying his face in Feyre’s neck.

It started with wine, as it always does, and escalated into spirits. A tragic mix. Rhys and Cassian had already thrown up an hour or so before, Mor supposedly drinking them under the table. Little did they know, Lucien saw the shots of water poured alongside the tequila.

She threatened to turn Lucien’s nob into a banana split if he sold them out. He stayed away from the tequila.

Feyre, although in the know of Mor’s scheming, was still plastered. It was probably from polishing off the last dregs of gin after she lost the arm wrestle with Mor.

He felt a bit like a student again, drinking to get drunk, playing games with dubious rules. The tequila was definitely the tipping point, the descent into the chaos that paralleled University house parties.

It was almost necessary, however, to unleash the burden of responsibility on everyone’s shoulders. Rhys would come home more stressed than the last, though he wouldn’t admit it. Feyre and himself would watch Rhys become more withdrawn from conversation and affection.

Cassian admitted that stakes were high in the criminal world at the moment, where trust was a rarity and leads turned into mirages.

So drowning in laughter and alcohol was needed.

Lucien watched them fall asleep, their breaths becoming heavier and deeper, the room turning to black as his eyes fell too.

***

Feyre woke to the sensation of fingers running through her hair. She assessed the chest that she was pressing her face into.

She groaned at the light that assaulted her eyes.

“Luce?”

“I’m here.”

“I don’t feel good.”

“Unsurprising.”

Consciousness seemed almost unbearable as her stomach lurched.

By the time she managed to open her eyes, she found Lucien propped up on one arm, looking amusingly down at her.

Rhys’ continued to breathe in soft, even breaths behind her.

“Rough night, love?” Lucien asked.

“How are you not dead right now?”

“Oh trust me, I feel like murdered Rasputin but I’m a lot better at hiding it than you.”

He didn’t look like murdered Rasputin. His hair was neatly tied back, only the slight hit of dark circles under his eyes hinted at tiredness.

It was a mistake to try and sit up.

“We’re supposed to go to Elains stupid house warming party tonight,” she thought out loud. “I can barely move.”

“The party is at six. We still have nine hours to recover.”

Only five minutes later was Feyre scrambling over Rhys to reach the bathroom. She swayed on her feet before she fell to the toilet.

Lucien was thankfully hot on her heels, already gathering her hair as she heaved.

“I’m a fucking disaster,” she moaned, tears streaming down her face.

“When I first started dating Rhys,” said Lucien, crouching behind her and rubbing a hand on her back, “We got so wine drunk that I threw up over myself while we were making out on the sofa. I can’t handle Rhys’ expensive tastes.”

Feyre almost laughed if it wasn’t for the abrupt heaving.

“I have no idea why he didn’t end it then and there.”

“Because I fancied the fuck out of you, that’s why,” said Rhys, standing at the doorframe. “And if that meant cleaning up after you and nursing you back to life, then that was part of the package.”

Rhys brought her a cup of water.

“Here you go, girlfriend,” he winked. The glass was just about to touch her lips until she froze.

The memories of last night came back in flashes. She slumped back against the wall, letting it cool her bare back. Boyfriends and girlfriends. The L word.

“Did I…?”

“No, I’m sure it was Rhys who asked you to be our girlfriend,” said Lucien, helping her stand. She leaned heavily against him, legs weak.

Feyre had a few seconds to kneel down and stick her head back over the loo as her stomach betrayed her once more. Death would be a gift.

Perhaps it was a bit of a saving grace as Rhys took over at her side, rubbing at her back as he tied her hair. She didn’t want to clarify on the rash words that were the probable product of tequila rather than genuine affection just yet.

“Lucien’s going to get some breakfast,” he said.

She dry heaved again.

 _Jesus fuck, it was never ending_.

“Hmm, had a bit too much last night?”

“Shut up,” she gasped. “I was the one who was cleaning up your sick last night.”

“I don’t recall that happening, you must be exceptionally delirious.”

She reached behind to slap him.

He chuckled, finding a wet flannel to press to her forehead. She winced at the vile taste in her mouth.  _Oh god the smell._

Rhys however, didn’t even cringe.

***

Rhys pulled up onto the driveway of Elain’s new house.

There were a couple of people already being greeted at the door. Feyre suddenly froze in her seat, the realisation that her family were in that house dawned and her palms already grew tacky. She remembered the lasts words she said to her mother like bile on her tongue.

“I don’t want to go in.” Feyre swallowed against the lump in her throat.

“Let’s have a secret code if we want to leave,” said Rhys, bracing his hand on her knee. “Like,  _shit, we need to feed the cats._ ”

Lucien snorted from the back seat, rubbing his palm on Feyre’s neck. “Or  _crikey, we left the bloody stove on,”_ he said.

“ _Gee whiz ole chaps, our house is on fecking fire.”_

“Let’s go with the cats,” affirmed Feyre, laughing at her boyfriend’s silly antics. “We say that at any point we want to leave.”

She felt them nod in agreement. They were a team now.

Feyre’s legs felt wobbly as soon as she stepped out the car so she gratefully took Rhys’ extended arm to escort her to the front door. For too long, Feyre’s anxiety was closely associated to her family, and it was the most crippling at the prospect of meeting with her mother once more.

“Feyre!” exclaimed Elain, as she opened the door. She was beautiful as ever, her floral dress showing her slight bump. “I’m so glad to see you. You and your…boyfriends?”

She was trying, and that’s all that mattered to Feyre. She kissed her sisters’ cheek. “Yep. This is Rhys and Lucien.”

“Great! Nice to finally meet you guys.”

Rhys was a suave as ever, giving Elain a bright warm smile. Lucien’s greeting was tighter, stiffer. Feyre was much similar to Lucien in this case, social situations were a chore.  

Elain invited them in, and Feyre was met with people milling about left, right and centre.

“A lot of them are neighbours, some of Greysons new colleagues and some of our friends,” said Elain, holding her bump. “Then mum has come down with the aunts too.”

 _Fuck_. More of her mother’s pals to contend with.

“Feyre,” Elain said, taking her hand. “Please don’t start anything tonight. It would be nice if you and mum could get along for once. I said the same thing to mum, so don’t give me that look.”

Rhys discreetly gave her other tacky palm a squeeze.

It made Feyre cringe how oblivious Elain was to the rift in their family, as if it was a crack in the wall to cover. But the crack was bigger than anticipated and seeped into the foundations. The wall could collapse at any moment. But Elain was one to by ignore it and buy floral Laura Ashley wallpaper to match the furniture.

Feyre smiled tightly, “There will be no family feuds tonight.” She left out any promises.

***

Lucien already was ready to feed the cats. He was never good at socialising, not like Rhys who was capable of making a wall laugh. They drank the orange juice, the thought of alcohol after the night prior was enough to make Lucien spin.

So, he remained glued to Feyre’s side. It seemed like she appreciated it though, as she had already told him how much her feet were starting to hurt. He shared constant looks with Rhys, as if they were on constant assessment of Feyre’s mood and state.

They knew the tensions that existed amongst the Archeron’s. They knew of her unforgiving childhood, where she was held to impossible standards and conditional love. Rhys had told him that he didn’t want to forgive her family for their neglect. Lucien was inclined to agree.

Feyre navigated them to the kitchen. He could tell by Feyre’s fleeting eyes that although she hated every second here, she was greatly appreciating the building, humming at the stair case and high ceilings.

She pulled them into the corner, orange juice in hand. “As soon as one of my family members spots me, we’re fucked.”

“Shall we just hide?” suggested Rhys, knocking back his juice. “Preferably in a bedroom, with a lock.”

A couple of kids ran through, squealing at one another. Lucien held back his wince, he wasn’t good with children.

“Auntie Feyre!” a little girl, around 3 or 4, squealed.

“Annnnd the cover is blown,” murmured Feyre before putting on a big smile and crouching. “Hello Alice, how’s my gorgeous niece!”

Lucien stepped back as Alice ran into Feyre’s arms.

He shared a long look with Rhys.

“Feyre.” A woman neared. The resemblance was evident. Nesta. Though Nesta was smaller, with sharper features and steely grey blue eyes as opposed to Feyre’s ice blue.

“Nesta,” Feyre greeted, returning to stand.

Those steely eyes turned to Lucien. “So you’re the other one.”

The hostile bitterness in that tone made his blood simmer.

Feyre choked.

“Lucien,” he greeted, trying to make his smile genuine.

She only narrowed her eyes before turning her head to Rhys. “And you’re the guy who was feeling up my sister up in your fancy car.”

Lucien noticed Rhys’ jaw tense, the only sign of annoyance as he smiled and nodded his head. “Yes, that’s me. It’s Rhysand.”

Rhys rarely gave people his full name, only to those who didn’t deserve the intimacy of the name he prefers. Formalities too.

An awkward silence settled, and Lucien fidgeted out of discomfort, brushing his fingers with Feyre’s. Feyre had told them that she knew that Nesta was still sceptical, despite promising to rebuild their sistership again.

It seemed she was still a sceptic.

“Auntie Feyre,” pleaded the little girl, tugging at Feyre’s hem. “Will you take me to the zoo again?”

“Of course, sweetheart, only if your mum lets me.”

Nesta said nothing, only taking the little girls hand and tugging her away. “Our mother is looking for you, Feyre. It might make it easier for you that she’s off her bloody face.”

“Jesus Christ, as in our mother, the one with the steel stick up her arse and painfully high standards is plastered at a social event?”

“Yes, that’s the one. The thought of seeing you compelled her to chug G&T’s like bloomin’ water.”

“Lovely, she still hates me, then.”

“Yes. That’s the case.”

Nesta then walked away, Alice in tow, to talk to some people in the dining room.

Rhys and Lucien held an amused look when she turned to them.

“The last time I saw my mother drunk was New Years 2006 when she had finalised the divorce papers with my dad,” she blurted out.

“Do you want to feed the cats?” asked Rhys.

“Nah. I can’t leave yet. I haven’t seen my mother since February when I called her a cunting trollop among other expletives.”

Lucien snorted the orange juice he just sipped at. He shared a look with Rhys, a lingering one where they both grinned like fools. One that said:  _our girlfriend is so fucking perfect._

“Am I missing something here?” she pried.

“We’ll tell you later, when you’ll be tied up and on your knees.” The words poured out of Rhys’ mouth so nonchalantly and Lucien felt blood rush to his cock at the image.

Rhys was very versatile. While he was always on his back beforehand, with Feyre in the picture he had adapted to a new role. He liked it both ways. Literally. It was exciting as much as it was infuriating. And Rhys knew this, which is why he did it.

Lucien loved him.

They watched Feyre flush. She held her hand to her neck, as if recalling the pressure of Lucien’s own hand.

“I so want to feed the cats right now,” she murmured.

And Lucien loved her.

***

They found Feyre’s mother in one of the reception rooms, where she was sat on the arm of the chair discussing how proud she was of her daughters with a few aunts. Feyre was not included. Her greying hair was tied tightly behind her head and she wore a tasteful striped dress. Elain stood by Greyson by the fireplace, worriedly watching her mother start to tear up over the first time Nesta walked.

“Ah, fucking fuck, I can’t do this,” she murmured at the threshold of the double doors.

Lucien squeezed her hand gently. “The cats are pretty hungry.”

Then, Feyre’s mother lifted her head and they locked eyes. The cats would have to wait, it seemed.

“Feyre!” her mother exclaimed, she got up, swaying slightly as her heels sunk into the carpet before briskly walking towards them. Feyre couldn’t contain her shock when her mother pulled her into a tight embrace.

It was stiff, Feyre was unable to reciprocate the sudden affection.

“Hi, mum.”

Her mother pulled away, grasping at her forearms, looking her up and down.

“Look at you, beautiful, practically glowing. My beautiful daughter.”

The room was silent.

“Um…thanks, mum. You look…” Feyre noted the glaze in her eyes and the lopsided smile. “Well. You look very well.”

Her mother beamed at her. Behind, Feyre saw Elain ushering the majority of the family members out.

“Sit! Sit, we have so much to catch up on,” her mother said, tugging her by the hand to the now vacated sofa. She felt Lucien and Rhys trail behind.

She didn’t sit however, as it was only then did her mother eye her boyfriends.

“Oh, how rude of me,” she gaped, staring up at them. More so Rhys. “Hello.” Her mother giggled.

_Her mother giggled._

“You’re both very handsome,” she brushed past Feyre and ran a hand up Rhys’ arm.

Feyre cringed, gently detaching her mother from Rhys. “Fucking hell, mum.”

She gave Rhys and apologetic look but thankfully he held a face of amusement.

“Ms Archeron, pleasure to meet you,” Rhys quipped.

A sharp burst of laughter erupted from her mouth. “Please call me Jennifer.”

Feyre wasn’t entirely certain who this woman was, but she definitely was not her mother. Yet, she had to watch this imposter make small talk with her boyfriends like she was totally fine with this whole ordeal, like she didn’t have turbulent relations with her youngest daughter for the past 16 years.

Elain joined them, followed by Greyson. The latter gave her a bit of a dirty look that had Lucien wrapping an arm around her waist. The former looked to her apologetically as if to say,  _I had no idea she was getting drunk._

Her mother sloshed gin and tonic on her arm as she babbled about how attractive Rhysand was. Rhys was charming and patient and his took the onslaught of her mother’s attention with grace.

“Alright, Jennifer,” Greyson gritted out. He seemed the most irked out of their circle. Feyre was partially still in shock. “Let’s put you on the water.”

Jennifer blatantly ignored him and sipped at her drink as she then eyed up Lucien. Though it wasn’t with the same admiration as Rhys.

“So, the two of you, ay?” her mother slurred. “At the same time?”

“ _Jesus Christ,_ Mother,” Feyre exclaimed, suddenly very thankful that Elain had evacuated the room. Feyre could handle her mother when she had the eternal stick up her arse, but not like this. Never like this.

“What? I’m trying to understand this utter mess that you’ve got into for the umpteenth time.”

And there it was. The switch. The façade. Something darkened in her mother’s eyes, no longer distracted by Rhys’ blinding prettiness.

Lucien cleared his throat from beside her, obviously exceptionally uncomfortable while Rhys remained stoic on her other side.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” Feyre hissed, “In private.”

With a straightened back, her mother sauntered past them. “I’ll be in the garden.”

After a minute or so of affirming her boyfriends that she was going to be okay and receiving warning glares from Grayson, Feyre found her mother in the garden sitting at an iron table. There was only a patio light to chase the darkness away. She was inhaling a cigarette, legs crossed, glaring at a rose bush.

“Honestly, I’m not surprised you would do something like this,” her mother said without a glance her way as Feyre took the other chair.

“You make it sound like I’ve murdered someone.”

A few people loitered around the garden, but it was too cold for anyone aside the smokers to venture.

“You’ve murdered our relationship.”

Feyre snorted. “I thought you quit.” She gestured to the cigarette.

“I only social smoke now.” Her mother sniffed against the cold, tapping some ash to the ground.

Feyre didn’t believe that for a second, but she didn’t mention it, considering there were more significant things to start a fight about.

“I know things will never be smooth between us,” Feyre began, sighing against the cold, she tugged Lucien’s jacket round her shoulders. He gave it to her before going outside. “But I need you to know that I’m happy.”

“Why can’t you just be happy with the brown one?”

“He’s not the fucking  _brown one_ , his name is  _Rhys_.”

“He’s very attractive, and very wealthy. Why do you need the other one?”

“Because I love them both. We love each other.”

“This won’t last a sodding week.”

“You’re wrong.”  _She’s wrong_. Feyre assured herself.

“You’re a money and an attention whore. You love money and attention. That’s it.”

It was almost laughable how Jennifer Archeron just summed up her own character in one sentence. Add a dash of racism and elitism and you could make a replica.

“Then you obviously don’t know your own daughter,” Feyre snapped, finally earning a look from her mother. Her grey eyes were glazed from alcohol.

“No, I don’t. A daughter of mine would never humiliate this family.”

Squeezing her eyes closed, Feyre breathed against her anger, her unbridled rage at her mothers lack of warmth, of understanding. Feyre had always flocked to her father for such sentiments, and in hindsight they were still insufficient for this gaping hole in her chest.

She dared to say the words, “Do you even love me?”

There was a long pause, where the wind rustled the last of the remaining leaves from the trees was the only noise and the hum of conversation and laughter from the house.

“I only want what’s best for you, Feyre.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The wind stung Feyre’s eyes, as she glared at her mother who inhaled the last stump of her cigarette.

“I never wanted you, you know.”

The words were not a surprise. It was obvious Feyre was the unplanned child, born almost four years after her middle sister. But they still stung, like a knife in her heart for what seemed the thousandth time.

“I’m well aware that you’d rather have had me discarded.” The words were bitter in her mouth.

“ _No_ ,” her mother snapped. “I wouldn’t have done that. Not even if I could have predicted what you have become.”

“Did you ever even fucking think for a moment that everything I have done is because I wanted  _your_ attention. Whether positive or negative. Just to see if you even  _cared_.”

“I do care!” Her mothers eyes snapped back to hers.

“Not enough!” Feyre almost screamed, her throat hoarse. “You care more about your fucking reputation amongst your damn women’s club rather than me!”

Jennifer Archeron didn’t even protest, the fine lines around her eyes wrinkling.

“I’ve found something now,” Feyre continued, standing, to find some strength. “ _Actual_  love.  _Real bloody affection_. I don’t give a shit about your reputation. Quite frankly, this family has always been in the shitters ever since you scrounged every last penny off dad.”

A brittle smile stretched across Jennifer’s face. “You’ve always had a backbone, I will give you that.”

“Don’t give me  _anything_ , I want nothing from you, especially not your approval. You lost that right a long time ago.”

There was never any resolution to any of these fights, any common ground may as well have been on Jupiter. And in no way would one of them dare to change for the other. The wind was biting now, piercing through Lucien’s suit jacket.

“Feyre.”

A blanket of calm washed over her. “Luce.”

He was waiting at the patio doors, looking exceptionally worried. Feyre turned from her mother and went to him without another word. He gently took her hand and brought her inside, where the warmth enveloped her.

The party was still in full swing and Feyre saw Elain mingling with guests in the adjacent room.

“Where’s Rhys?” she asked after a moment.

Lucien brought her closer, rubbing his hands up and down her arms to generate heat.

“He had a call. He has had to go back into work.” Lucien frowned. “We’re going to have to get the tube back.”

Feyre nodded, slightly disappointed.

“He told me to tell you that he L words you, and he will make it up to you.”

Suddenly, Feyre couldn’t help the blinding grin that overwhelmed her face. “He’s already forgiven.”

Lucien gave her a longing look, his own smile reflecting her own. “Cats?”

“I’ll just say hi to my dad and then cats.”

They found him in another reception room, absolutely shitfaced singing Come on Eileen while an unknown someone played at the piano. They managed to gain his attention somewhat briefly afterwards, where he gave Feyre a sloppy kiss on the cheek and announced to everyone that his favourite daughter was here.

Lies. Elain was his favourite daughter.

But it was still a better encounter than her mother. He shook at Lucien’s hand, pretending to be protective and threatening Lucien with empty threats if he treated Feyre inadequately.

It was all too predictable.

***

As soon as Feyre’s father was drawn into another song, they left, not even saying goodbye to Feyre’s sisters. He could tell that she just wanted to leave immediately. He saw the exhaustion on her face when he sought her in the garden after eavesdropping for a few moments.

Her mother was abysmal. And Lucien felt himself grow more protective with each slump of her shoulders.

 _I’ve found something now,_  she said, actual  _love._

It was a ten-minute walk to the tube, and their clasped hands swung between them as they shared body heat. November was truly upon them.

“What do you want to do when we get back?” he asked after a few minutes of gentle silence.

“Definitely not anything with alcohol.”

The night before was still taking its toll it seemed.

Lucien pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders when the wind bit in closer to their skin.

Feyre cuddled into his side, her heels clapping against the pavement.

They passed shops now, nearing the underground. There were more people around as it was Saturday night, many taking the tube into the centre.

“It felt nice today,” Feyre said. Lucien took her hand again when they entered the station. “Calling you my boyfriends.”

“I would be worried if it didn’t,” Lucien smirked, jostling against the sudden influx of people.

She shot him an empty glare, but then her smile turned into a frown. “Do you definitely want to be my boyfriend?”

The air warmed as they descended further underground, Lucien turned on his step on the escalator, Feyre taller on the step above.

“What on earth are you saying?”

“It just seemed a bit…rash…didn’t it? Like maybe it was the tequila talking and we were too drunk to actually process it but now you can’t back out of it and now you’re stuck with me,” she rushed out, words mingling and linking together. Almost incoherent.

She was nervous. Throughout this entire relationship, Feyre constantly doubted herself, her position, her place. Like she was impeding. It tugged at his heart.

“Stuck with you? Feyre, I couldn’t imagine a better person to be stuck with. Rhys would agree.” He led her off the escalator and onto the platform.

“So you do want to be my boyfriend? Both of you?”

Lucien gave her a long unwavering look. “We were going to ask, sooner or later. Rhys wanted it to happen over a fancy dinner overlooking the Thames, but it just so happened to be when we were all abysmally drunk. But that doesn’t mean we mean it any less.”

Feyre beamed at him, before kissing him hard.

He could have kissed her for longer, but the tube arrived. The air was grossly humid.

There were no seats together, so they decided to stand. Feyre was still smiling foolishly and Lucien wished Rhys was there just to bask in this moment.

There faces were close, aware of the nightgoers in the tube to resume any further PDA.

“I’m going to spend a long time making sure you know how much you belong with us,” Lucien said.

“That’s good, because I’m going to need constant reassurance. Reassurance as in lots of kinky sex and romantic speeches.”

He grinned, holding her tightly against him. “Doable. But how is this for reassurance.” He tilted his head, so his lips brushed her ear.

“I love you,” he whispered. They were so easy to say.

She swallowed deeply, and he met her eyes once more. “That was…very reassuring.”

“I aim to please.”

“I…” she licked her lips.

Lucien raised his brow at her, heart pounding at her nearness, the truth he just spilled.

“I don’t know how to do this. Are there like rules in polyamory? Would it be fairer if I said the L word when you’re both here? Does it feel like I’m favouring one over-“

Lucien planted his hand over her mouth. “You’re overthinking this big time.”

He had discussed this a lot with Rhys. About the L word and taking the next step. They agreed that everything should just happen in the moment. While there were plans, they further agreed that when it happens, it happens. It could be a special moment without all of them there or vice versa.

“I want to tell you that I L word you back, but I L word you both…so…” Feyre furrowed her brows. He steadied her as the tube slowed at another station.

“Then do it now, or do it later when Rhys is here. There’s no obligation either way.”

She nodded, still stuck in her head.

Then she burst into a laughter. “Wow, this is super complicated.”

“I wouldn’t be happier with anything less,” he said seriously.

Feyre suddenly turned her head to the far end of the tube and he followed her gaze. There was a lone man, dressed in a thick black trench coat, almost faceless from the distance.

“You okay?” he asked, bringing her gaze back to him.

She swallowed, huddling closer to him. “Yeah. I just felt him…watching.”

A sudden unease creeped up Lucien’s spine. But ration squashed it.

“A lot of people are looking, love.” They weren’t really holding back on the PDA.

“Yeah but not the way he is. Like he’s pretending not to look.”

They remained vigilant for the rest of the journey, counting down the stops. Lucien took her hand once more as they hurried out of the station, which was eerily quiet.

And all the while, out of the corner of his eye, a shadow crept behind them.

Lucien tugged at Feyre’s hand to increase the pace as they briskly walked along the street. It was another five minutes until they would reach their flat.

“Luce,” she breathed out, panic laced in that very syllable.

“We need to get home,” he said mechanically. He tightened his grip on her hand.

“I know.”

Lucien was very close to calling an uber, but that meant that they needed to stop and wait somewhere.

No. Rhys always told him to keep moving in the face of danger.

He grasped his pocket for his phone, sweat dripping down his back despite the bitter winds.

A quick glance over his shoulder found the figure still following, not even concealing his advances.

The roads were quiet in this quarter, and Lucien was torn between dialling 999 or Rhys. Maybe even knocking on a stranger’s door. Would any of those choices be quick enough?

Feyre suddenly stopped and turned, and Lucien almost dragged her to keep going until he noticed that their stalker was only ten or so metres away.

“Stop!” she rasped. “We are calling the police!”

The figure stopped. And Lucien put his phone to his ear, Feyre already making his mind for him.

Then darkness descended upon them. The street lights were suddenly off, leaving only the moonlight to cast shadows on the cracked pavement.

Lucien waited for the phone to ring but he was listening to silence. He didn’t take his eyes off the figure for a moment, the silhouette shrouded in darkness.  

That was until he forced himself to look at his phone, the screen black. It was completely dead.

“Did he…” Feyre breathed.

Then the figure began moving towards them again.

_Move._

Lucien tugged her back, confusion and panic in his eyes as he pulled her to begin running. They rounded the corner, turning onto their street, where there was light in the distance. But it was too far.

Something worse than dread settled at the pit of Lucien’s stomach, something worse than fear.

All he could hear was the blood in his ears and the heavy pound of their feet on the pavement.

Feyre stumbled in her heels but he pulled her upright.

“ _Lucien_ ,” Feyre cried out. He turned instinctively, pushing Feyre behind him to protect her from the monster that lurked.

But when he scanned the street, it was empty. Silent aside from the howling wind.


	10. The Dark Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: plot, like actual plot guys BIG UP, worries, anxiety, blood, exhaustion, trauma, soft understanding boyfriends, inappropriate boyfriends, live porn in kitchens, the actual L word, shitty parents, exceptionally despicable bosses

It was 5:00 am.

Rhys rubbed his aching eyes, sipping at his too sweet tea with one too many sugars. Coffee would have been a better alternative, but he hated the taste unless he was tasting it off Lucien’s lips. Latte tasted nice off Feyre’s lips too. But that was the extent of his coffee endeavours.

The high stool he sat on grew more uncomfortable by the second and the marble counter of the kitchen island was cold beneath his elbows. He had taken off his tie and jacket a long while ago, between wrapping the latter around an inconsolable Feyre and yanking off the former to make it easier to breathe when he received a certain phone call hours earlier. The screen in front of him blurred, and he knew sleep deprivation was a serious danger. But so was the position he had put his lovers. Serious danger.

He shouldn’t have put anything past his new target. Trust was supposed to be a mutual concept. But he had put too much of it in the hopes that Amarantha was a persuader not a coercer. That’s what the reports had always indicated. But the rules have changed, and they are in her favour.

Footsteps sounded behind him. They were heavier, and Rhys wondered why Lucien was awake at this god awful hour.  _You’re a hypocrite, Rhysand._

“You should be sleeping,” Rhys said, slamming the computer screen down before his boyfriend could see.

“ _I’m_  the one that is supposed to tell you what  _you_ should be doing, thank you very much,” Lucien said, coming to his side. Rhys looked up at him, his hair a tangled knot at the base of his neck, bare besides his stripy pyjama bottoms. Lucien gave him a heated glare. “Why are you awake?”

“I have unfinished business.”

“Then finish it. Come to bed.”

The reason why Rhys had not gone to sleep, was because he was planning. Preparing.

After they had scoured the area with the police for a sign of the stalker and found nothing to secure an identity, Rhys went into what Feyre pointed out to be  _Batman_ mode. Vengeful, withdrawn and grumpy.

The only things that were for certain, was that it was the work of Amarantha. To have access to EMPs and cause a localised blackout and to control CCTV footage of the Underground required unlimited contacts, power and healthy access to the arms trade.

To go to such an extent to scare the two people currently closest to him and in turn scare Rhys, meant that he had most definitely upset Amarantha in their last rendez-vous. She now tipped the scales in her favour, and as much was obvious, she wanted Rhys submissive and pliant and willing, not the arrogant and careful investment banker. And she was willing to play with the people around him.

 _Check_ , he heard her say in the corner of his mind.

To negotiate with a war criminal was more difficult than anticipated. Though it wasn’t surprising when she profited off the blood and burning flesh of children while simultaneously being their savour. Amarantha, philanthropist and tyrant. It was a paradox too painful to digest.

“Give me ten minutes,” Rhys pleaded, placing an appeasing palm on Lucien’s hip.

“And what will you be doing, Rhysand?”

Those burnished brown eyes sliced through him, scouring every grey hair and wrinkle that Rhys had probably developed overnight.

“I’m making sure this doesn’t happen again.”

He spent two hours finding a security team that would now be responsible for watching over his lovers. He sent a few to his family in Birmingham too. Precautions.

Precautions that he should have taken priority as soon as Tamlin was involved for exposing Rhys’ personal life and putting Feyre and Lucien in an open ended field while giving Amarantha a sniper.

Lucien sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He sat on the adjacent stool, his knees knocking with Rhys’. “You’re not giving us bloody body guards, are you?”

“No.” Rhys knew that Lucien and Feyre would be completely opposed to someone watching over them so closely. “Think of them more like lookouts, they’ll just keep an eye. From a distance. Intervene if necessary.”

That seemed to appease him because he nodded. “Right. Fine.”

They shared a glance, and Rhys tried to sort through Lucien’s emotions. But the wall of exhaustion was opaque.

“And why are you awake, Lucien darling?” Rhys absently took his boyfriends hand.

“I couldn’t sleep. I think I had a nightmare, but I can’t really remember it.”

Rhys swallowed, finding it difficult to pretend he was okay, that he could cope with the guilt.

“Stop that,” said Lucien. “You’re making that face like you’re responsible for everything that happens in the world. Well guess what hotshot, you’re not.”

Before Feyre, everyone used to think Rhys was the calm, care free one. The one who could face every challenge with a smile. Only Lucien would know the lies, the front. How Rhys would wear his heart on his sleeve and carry everyone’s problems on his back and then some. Now Feyre knew too, she saw through this little façade. She had held him that night when he was supposed to be holding her and told him to stop bearing a guilt that was not his. 

“Come to bed with me,” Lucien said. It was a plea. The closest thing that Lucien would ever be to begging.

“Okay.”

Rhys was too tired to argue. The plane tickets that he was buying would have to wait until morning. He was going to wait as long as possible before telling them that little detail.

Lucien pulled him by the hand to stand and then embraced him without warning. Rhys wrapped his arms around his boyfriend instinctively, pressing him close until they moulded into one. He pressed his face into the crook of Lucien’s neck, breathing him in.

Something sank to the bottom of his stomach, his heart threatening to tear in two at the unbearable thoughts that were clouding his head.

He uttered the three words onto Lucien’s skin, just because.

***

Feyre blinked, her eyes dry and sore. It was 1:00 in the afternoon when she glimpsed at the clock.

The trauma of the night before weighed down her head as she tried to lift it. Looking to her left to find Lucien splayed against Rhys’ back. Rhys’ own arm stretched across her stomach.

She gently slipped out from underneath him, her feet finding the carpet.

As soon as she was vertical, she was hit by that dreaded feeling.

She checked to see potential leaking only to find that her uterus had definitely betrayed her. There were spots of blood on the bed sheets, her pants were soaked and she wanted to die on the spot.

Tears pricked her eyes, totally incapable of dealing with this today. Not after the night prior where she discovered her life was the new James Bond film and Feyre played the grand role of the vulnerable pawn only to be used against James Bond himself. She wasn’t even a Bond girl. So uncool.

She rushed to the bathroom, terrified of getting any blood on the cream plush carpet.

“Seriously fuck you fuck you  _fuck you_ ,” she muttered, sitting on the safety of the toilet, yanking her ruined underwear off. She just threw them in the bin next to the toilet, considering it was too much of an effort to put them in soak when she just wanted to fall through the floor to the centre of the earth.

She had skipped her last period to fuck her boyfriends and now it had returned with a vengeance.

“Feyre?” It was Rhys.

She choked on a sob, feeling so weak and pathetic in that moment.

The night before had shaken her. Those vulnerable feelings returned full force.

The door was ajar, and he slipped in, assessing the situation.

“Hey, hey,” he uttered, coming to kneel before her. He probably saw the drying blood on her fingers as she wiped at the tears with the back of her hand. “Do you have any sanitary products with you?”

Feyre found that he was quick, calm and straightforward in times of crisis. The night prior had proved that.

He stroked her hair, waiting patiently as she gathered herself enough to say that she kept some in her work backpack.

When Rhys returned with clean pants and tampons and pads, Feyre almost choked up again.

“I’m sorry. I got some on your bed sheets.”

“Don’t apologise for something as natural as  _menstruating_ , Feyre. It’s just blood.” His voice was stern, leaving no room for argument. He kissed her forehead before leaving her with some privacy to clean up. He added at the doorway, “I’ll put the kettle on.”

She almost shouted  _I love you_ , but she didn’t want the first time to say it properly being associated with sitting on the loo, bloody and teary.

After a long hot shower, the sweat still stuck to her skin from the night before, she wandered down stairs. The bed was empty, so she expected to find her boyfriends there, but she only found Lucien in the kitchen chopping up fruit.

Her footsteps were muted by fluffy socks as she padded towards him.

“Hey,” she said.

He sent her a soft smile, a rare one. Without a word, he tugged her by the hand and brought her to his chest, enveloping her into a tight hug. Lucien kissed her forehead, then her cheek.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

“No, just discomfort. I’ll be fine.”

“I love you,” he murmured softly into her ear.

She held him tighter, the words warm against her cold skin.

She remembered him holding her like this when they stood outside their apartment building. With burning muscles, they had pounded at the glass of the entrance door, to gain attention of one of the members of security. The blackout had caused all power in the vicinity to completely shut down, leaving them locked out for ten long minutes.

Lucien pulled away slightly to grab a mug on the counter.

“Rhys made you some tea,” he took a sip. “It’s still hot.”

Feyre beamed, hoisting herself up on the counter and taking it from him with a thanks. Lucien resumed his chopping.

“Do you want to go to work, tomorrow?” he asked.

She contemplated this for a moment, running a hand through her damp hair. She remembered the slickness of her palms as she forced her legs into a run. The blackened silhouette. The faceless face. She swallowed before replying, “Yeah. I can’t bare the thought of being cooped in all day.”

It was true. Working was too important to her.

Lucien nodded, putting his knife down to look her over. There was an air of tension this afternoon, frowns instead of smiles and worried glances instead of jokes.

“What?” she pried after a few seconds of no explanation. She was worried he was going to bring up last night. She was exhausted by the very topic.

“Tamlin’s back in the office tomorrow. Got an email this morning.”

“I was going to have to face him at some point,” Feyre sighed. It had been 4 weeks since her  _date_  with Tamlin. He had been suspiciously absent. Rhys told them that he had been in 8 major cities across the UK, under the guise of a charity tour.

When Rhys told them why Amarantha was not a convicted war criminal, Feyre was sickened. Amarantha organised major charities for refugees and people living in civil warfare, while simultaneously facilitating the major flow of arms to corrupt governments and terrorist organisations. She was expanding the cycle tenfold.  

The front door opened a few moments later, and Feyre heard Rhys talking to one of the security guards that were stationed outside their flat overnight.

“This is a fucking mess,” Lucien muttered, running his hand down his face.

“I’m obliged to agree.”

Rhys entered the kitchen with an assured step, giving them long once overs. He placed a bag next to Feyre on the countertop.

“For milady,” he said, his lips quirked up.

Inside the bag was sanitary products, heating pads and an abundance of chocolate.

“My hero,” Feyre said and pulled him down by his collar to kiss his cheek.

“And where is my bag of goodies?” Lucien said, plastering a false glare to their boyfriend.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were bleeding from your vagina,” Rhys said.

“Yes, actually, it’s quite a warzone down there.”

Feyre laughed and threw a Cadbury’s caramel bar at Lucien’s face. “Here, to satiate those cravings.”

The chocolate bounced off Lucien’s cheek, but he managed to catch it. He held it up in the air, looking between them, “Some pity chocolate? This relationship is over.”

A phone vibrated in the distance and Feyre had to reluctantly leave her boyfriend’s bickering to follow the ringtone. She quickly located it in the hallway, from her bag.  

She breathed out a hefty sigh before answering.

“Hey, Elain.”

“I’m really disappointed in you, Feyre.”

Feyre must have pulled a face because her boyfriends sent her very inquisitive looks between their laughter from the kitchen. She waved them off.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking. How are you?”

“Don’t bullshit me, Feyre.”

Feyre sucked in a breath. Elain rarely swore. Elain was rarely  _angry_.

“If you would just tell me what I’ve done wrong so I can give a half-hearted apology and get on with my day, that will be great,” Feyre said, walking back in the kitchen and picking at some of the chopped up fruit that Lucien had left on the side. Her boyfriends had their heads bowed together, talking softly.

“ _You left_. You left the party without even saying goodbye. Some of the aunts wanted to speak to you!”

“I haven’t talked to them for about 5 years,” Feyre waved her strawberry around in exasperation, “why would I want to talk to them now?”

“Because they’re your  _family._ ”

“They don’t care about me, they only care about the gossip between me and mum.” Feyre put another strawberry to her mouth but Lucien managed to materialise in front of her and seize her wrist. She raised her brow at him.

“I thought you were going to try and make an effort, Feyre!”

He pointed to the smoothie maker.  _Stop eating the fucking fruit_ , he seemed to say.

She blinked. Her blood suddenly heating by the way he was squeezing her wrist and looking down at her with reprimanding eyes.  _Oh dear lord._

“Feyre?”

“Yeah? What? I’m here.”

Lucien plucked the fruit from her fingers and put it down, dropping her wrist as well.

“Were you even listening to me?”

“Yeah, yeah, make an effort. Put on my best fake smile and try to converse with people who think I’m the estranged whorish daughter.”

Feyre picked up a grape and popped it in her mouth quickly, watching Lucien’s reaction. He glared for a moment, before those lips spread into a dark smile.  _Bingo_. It was the same smile that he wore when he knew she was hot and bothered. The same one he wore when she was begging and writhing beneath him.  _Yes_.  _Please_.

“Was it mum? Who made you want to leave early?” Elain asked.

“Uh, to be honest Elain I didn’t even want to go.”  _Words, Feyre. Words_. “I went for you. And maybe Nesta. You’re the only two who I promised to make an effort with.”

Her eyes flickered to Rhys, and he was watching them with a soft smirk on his face. It just so happened to be the same smirk he wore when he also knew she was turned the fuck on. Funnily enough, the exact same one he wore when he knew she was eye fucking him. He winked at her. Feyre leaned against the counter more heavily.

A sigh sounded from the other side of the phone. “Mum’s been a bit distant. Did you have another fight?”

“She was shitfaced. She’s probably hungover,” Feyre said quickly, watching the way Lucien pushed Rhys against the opposite counter. The game seemed to have changed. Feyre was definitely not complaining. Not as their lips met hungrily. There was something about the way that kissed which made warmth pool to her lower stomach. She ate another grape.

“Yes, but I can tell she’s upset about something. What did you say to her?”

Feyre probably would have felt angry at the jab that it was yet again her fault for having a shitty mother, but Rhys’ hand just slid under the waistband of Lucien’s joggers so her thoughts were better placed.

“I mean,” Elain continued. And Feyre realised that Elain must have been talking for longer than she was listening. “She didn’t come back to the party last night and just went straight to bed. Did you have another fight?”

Someone moaned. Probably Rhys. Definitely Rhys by the way Lucien had pressed their pelvises flush together. Their kisses were liquid. Slow and wet, as if they were making sure she could see every detail. Feyre bit her lip.

_“Feyre? Hello?”_

_Seriously fuck you Elain, could she not tell she was watching her boyfriend’s basically fuck against the kitchen counter while she perversely ate fruit?_

_Damn._

_It._

“I asked her if she loved me and she didn’t even give me an answer,” Feyre managed to say.

There was a pause. And Rhys and Lucien stopped their live porn to throw her a worried look. She hoped her face said  _please carry on. Please distract me from this pain._

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not fucking okay,” Feyre snapped. The air from the room was suddenly sucked out. Rhys and Lucien pulled away from one another and made tentative steps towards her.

Feyre sighed, closing her eyes, the phone heavy in her hand. Everything in her body was unsettled. Like her organs were the wrong way around or her skin was on backwards. She thought of the gaze of the shadow and the smoke of her mother’s cigarette curling into the bitter air.

“Do you want to…do you want to meet up today?” Elain asked.

Rhys tugged her by the hand and she followed tiredly.

“I’ve had a bit of a rough night, so not today. Maybe sometime this week though?”

She heard the kettle start to boil.

“Yes, of course, I would love that,” Elain said softly. “Is there anything else you need to talk about? Are things still okay with Rhys and Lucien?”

Rhys pulled her to sit down beside him on the sofa. She leaned into him, curling her legs up and resting her head on his shoulder. Rhys stroked the hairs of her arm in comfort.

“There are things we can’t control which are throwing a few curveballs,” Feyre said carefully. “But they are my only constant right now.”

“They’re with you now?”

“They are.”

“Okay, good. I’m glad you have them.”

Those words were a surprise.

“I am too,” Feyre said.

“Shall I text you about plans for this week?”

“Yeah. You can do.”

“See you soon, Feyre.”

“See you soon.”

Rhys plucked the phone from her hand as soon as she ended the call and put it on the arm of the sofa. He wrapped an arm around her, bringing her into a soft embrace.

“You didn’t tell me about what happened with your mum,” Rhys said, stroking a hand through her hair as Feyre hid her face in the crook of his neck. It was safe there.

“I don’t know, a certain creepy stalker got in the way.”

Rhys’ hand tightened slightly in her hair, seemingly not okay at the reminder, no matter how light-hearted. She felt him swallow.

“Don’t worry about my mum,” Feyre said suddenly, moving out of the safety of Rhys’ chest and changing the subject. “She’s been like this ever since I was thirteen.”

His eyes were dark. “What happened when you were thirteen?”

Lucien came and sat on her other side, putting a steaming hot cup of tea on the coffee table.

“My parents got divorced, my mum taking the bulk of the assets and leaving my dad heartbroken and broke. I was the one trying to pull him together while she went on a solo tour of America.”

Feyre remembered the severe depression her father went into, something that plagued him. She remembered trying to get him to get up and go to work before school. She remembered doing the paper round at 14, trying to make ends meet while her sisters were off at Uni. Only when she was 16 and legal to have a debit card did she find out that her mother was sending money into her and her sisters bank accounts, money that Elain and Nesta were thriving off for years. All the while Feyre was hauling her dad out of bed and begging for a job at every corner shop.

Rhys was stroking up and down her thigh as she spoke while Lucien took her left hand.

“She hated me when I took dad’s side. Like I was supposed to forgive her for the shit she did to us,” Feyre said. “And I hated her. And the animosity escalated. She was never guilty about what she did. And I wanted to hurt her so badly because of it, so I turned to humiliating her.” Getting drunk at social events and finding every chance to fight. Creating fucking scandals at weddings when her perfect other daughters were on the ‘right’ track.

They didn’t say anything. But she was glad, she didn’t want pity, she received enough of that with her family who had developed the notion that Feyre was nothing but estranged and rebellious. Her mother had definitely crafted her a ridiculous persona.

She made a quick glance between them. Rhys was staring out the window with a sour expression. Lucien just looked plain angry.

“Your mother is the biggest fucking twat,” Lucien said eventually. He turned to look down at where Feyre was slouched between them. His eyes softened.

“The biggest,” Feyre smiled.

“I don’t know,” said Rhys, a small smile teasing at his lips too. “She’s not  _that_ bad. She spent all last night complimenting my graceful features and impeccable dress sense.”

“She also told me to ditch Lucien and be monogamous with  _the brown one_.”

A snort erupted from Rhys’ mouth. “I’ve been called far worse.”

“No wonder she was looking at me like my existence personally offended her,” Lucien muttered. It probably did. Jennifer Archeron probably saw Rhys as the better breeding partner and turned her nose up at Lucien. “I guess I won’t be welcome at Christmas.”

“I was never welcome at Christmas anyway. It was more of an obligatory invite. I always get too drunk and swear too much.”

“Then, it seems that we’ll be spending Christmas with my family henceforth,” said Rhys.

“Seriously?” Feyre was slightly in awe, her heart pounding, as she turned her head to look up at him.

“Why wouldn’t I save the two people I love from their exceptional dysfunctional and shitty families?”

_Love love love love love love lovelovelovelovelo_

“Woah,” breathed Feyre, standing. “Hold on, let me get my speech together.”

“This shouldn’t be a surprise by now. I love you, Feyre,” he laughed.

The words were so warm, so wonderfully warm. Her palms started to sweat, her heart beat so wildly so suddenly that  _surely_  this must have been some sort of cardiac arrest.

“I know, I know. But you’ve both said the  _actual_ L word, while I haven’t.”

She picked up the tea on the coffee table and downed it in a few gulps. She looked down at herself, Rhys’ t-shirt, Lucien’s joggers. Her hair was still damp, and her face was bare. Not sexy.

When she looked down at them, they were both rather amused.

“I know you don’t want to hear this right now,” said Lucien. “But you’re fucking hot when you’re nervous.”

She flushed. “Don’t. This is serious.”

“ _I’m_  serious.”

They were both smiling like crazy.

“This isn’t  _funny_  you two. I’m trying to tell you how much I’m in love with you and how you seem to have joint ownership over my stupid heart.”

“Did you hear that, Lucien? Our girlfriend loves us,” Rhys beamed, turning to their boyfriend.

“Hmm, I’m not quite sure I heard it,” Lucien tilted his head back up to her, eyes glinting. “What did you say, love?”

They were having too much fun messing with her. But she couldn’t stop her stupid  _stupid_  smile.

“You’ve ruined it. I hate you both now,.” With a flourish, she turned and marched off.

“I didn’t realise our girlfriend was a liar now too,” she heard Lucien declare from behind.

Hands caught her waist and she yelped as she was brought back into the solid chest of Rhys. He wrapped his arms securely around her.

“Where are you off to?” he asked lowly in her ear.

“You’ve bloody ruined my dramatic exit.”

“Not before we hear it again.” Lucien appeared in front of her, and he took her chin firmly in his hand.

She gazed into those eyes, the ones that had the power to piss her off relentlessly whilst simultaneously making her thighs quiver and her heart stop.

One of Rhys’ hand slid up her t-shirt,  _his_ t-shirt, and he drew soft soothing circles on her lower stomach with the pads of his fingers.

“Um,” she said, a bit distracted by Rhys’ hold, by the way Lucien stepped closer. And she was trapped between them.  

 _They’re taking the piss._ Holding her like this and expecting her to speak? Sly, sly bastards.

Lucien raised his eyebrow at her expectantly.

“I’m in bloody love with you both, alright?” she said. “Now stop fuckin’ with me.”

“I beg to differ, I think you want us to fuck with you,” Rhys countered.

She didn’t deny it. Not when Lucien kissed her soundly, or when Rhys’ hand found her breast.

_Oh god._

She went from sappy to gooey in approximately 0.005 seconds. She let their touch consume her every thought, until an unwanted thought crept into the corner of her mind.

_And fuck._

Feyre pulled away from Lucien’s mouth, then she untangled herself from Rhys’ arms and took a few steps away.

“Period…” she breathed, walking backwards into the couch and almost losing her footing.

“Is that an  _I don’t want to_ or an  _I can’t_?” asked Rhys.

“Neither. It’s more like a  _do you want to?_ ”

“What a ridiculous question. Wouldn’t you agree, my love?” Rhys turned to Lucien.

“Positively absurd.”

“I…” Feyre stammered, looking between their smug faces. “Fuck it. Bedroom.”

***

The office was eerily quiet the next Monday morning, absenteeism typically high.

Lucien closed his office door behind him, watching as Feyre placed her backpack on one of the chairs before his desk and retrieved her laptop. He watched her flop down in the adjacent chair and prop her feet on the glass desk.

“Making yourself at home?”

“Safer in here than out there,” she said. Lucien made a face, knowing why she was reluctant to sit at her desk out in the open and in the path of Tamlin whenever he arrived.

“He will probably pop in looking for me, you know,” he said, hanging up his coat before seating himself at his desk.

“Is this code for _I don’t want you in here, darling girlfriend of mine_?”

“Yes, actually. You’re a bloody pain my arse.”

Feyre extended her long leg under the desk and kicked his shin.

“I can’t wait until my contract ends here,” she said, “You fucking tosser.”

Lucien wrapped his hand around her ankle, yanking it, making her slid down her seat with a yelp.

“I love it when you talk dirty to me,” he smiled.

She tugged her ankle back and sat upright once more. He gave her a long, steady once over. Her grey trouser suit tailored perfectly to that lithe figure that he too often associated with being tied down and touched by two sets of hands. He glanced at her chest, trying to decipher what pretty lacy thing she was wearing under that navy blue blouse, if she was wearing anything at all.

“It’s 9:15 in the fucking morning, Lucien.” The edge of that mouth tilted up slightly. It was the same kind of smile that Rhys gave him when he knew that Lucien was blatantly checking him out.

Lucien gave a little shrug, leaning back in his chair. “You’re distracting me.”

“And you’re horny as hell. No wonder you need two people to satiate you.”

He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. “Testy today. Do I need to gag you again?”

Feyre’s nostrils flared. He knew how she hated how much she loved it.

“And you’re awfully cocky today, Vanserra. I should be moving back to my desk if this continues.”

“Vanserra? And now you’re just asking to be punished.”

The laugh that erupted from her mouth made it to Lucien Vanserra’s top 3 favourite sounds to exist, alongside Rhys’ morning voice and the coffee machine.

“I hate you so much, right now,” she spluttered.

“False, you love me.” He sent her a dazzling smile.

“No  _you’re_ false. My boyfriend says too many entirely inappropriate things in entirely inappropriate places.”

“Rhys isn’t  _that_  bad-“

Lucien was suddenly attacked by a pen.

The sexual tension was cut as soon as the door swung open, to reveal none other than the devils advocate.

“Feyre, there you are,” Ianthe said sweetly. “Tamlin wants you in his office, now.”

Lucien watched Feyre’s face leak of colour.

“Sure, will be right there,” she said, not even turning her head.

“Did you both have a nice weekend?” Ianthe asked. She planted an innocent glare at Lucien, and he grimaced at the heat of her gaze.

“It was pleasant,” Lucien said, trying to make eye contact with Feyre since her eyes seemed to have found something very interesting on the floor.

Ianthe was talking but Lucien wasn’t giving her the time of day when his girlfriend was withdrawing in on herself. The door slammed shut after a few seconds.

“Feyre?” he asked immediately.

“I’m scared of what will happen if I don’t agree with him this time.”

The words were so quiet that he didn’t almost hear them. But when he did, his heart dropped, and his legs moved without hesitation as he rounded the desk to kneel before her.

“I’m going with you,” he said, bracing his hands on her thighs.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can handle it,” she sniffed and retrieved her phone from her pocket. “I’ll make sure I have evidence if he tries anything again.”

Lucien swallowed against the queasiness in his stomach. Her fears were his.

“I can’t let this pass without bringing it up with him. This is so  _wrong_ , Feyre.”

“I don’t need you to defend me.”

“I love you, I’ll always defend you.”

She froze, but he earned a smile.

“It’s still my battle, Luce. I’ll call for rearmaments if necessary.”

He nodded and rose when she stood too.

Then he kissed her briefly. “Maintain that no bullshit policy, deep breaths, I’ll be nearby if there’s any sort of trouble.”

***

“Feyre, hi.”

Feyre slipped in through Tamlin’s door and closed it behind her. “Tamlin.”

“How is my expansion going?”

She watched him lean back in his chair. Wherever he had been in the weeks past, something had changed. He held a certain sharpness honed by far more expensive suits and slick back hair. Though there was something lingering in his eyes that made him seem more predatory, more dangerous.

“Everything’s in motion, construction begins next week. Will be doing site visits soon. Everything is in the emails I’ve sent you,” she said with clarity. She took a seat in one of the chairs before his desk. 10 seconds in and already profusely sweating.

_Way to keep it cool, Feyre._

“Good to hear. The smoothness of this whole process has made me happy to have hired you specifically, despite our differences.”

Feyre swallowed against the lump in her throat, she reminded herself of her phone recording this in her right pocket. It was a reassuring weight.

“Yes, well, this project has been a challenge.”

She hoped he heard it. The meaning behind the word challenge.  _Yes, Tamlin. You are the reason it has been a challenge you top notch wanker._

His lips flickered up, and he rubbed at his lower lip with his thumb in thought.

“I bet you’re wondering why I brought you in here, so I will just come out and say it,” he said. Feyre held her breath. “I apologise for how our date ended last month. I admit, I thought you were always open to my advances.”

Something like fire flooded through Feyre’s veins, remembering how she sat in this very seat being blackmailed.

“So, my work will be evaluated solely on its merit?” she asked.

“That has always been the case, yes.”

An image came to mind, one where Feyre hulk smashed him through the window and watched his grave descent and splatter on the concrete from 20 stories high.

He gave her a long once over, his eyes catching over her midsection.

“Though, Feyre, it seems you will have bigger problems than your work here.”

Fire was replaced by ice, and she froze over.

“What do you mean?” she ground out.

Tamlin swiftly rose from his chair, rounding his desk with slow assured steps. Feyre moved quick, rising and taking a step back.

Her palms were slick, but she forced her shoulders back and her chin up.

But he didn’t stop his advance and Feyre found herself pressing into the door of his office as he stepped close.

“I’m leaving if you don’t get the fuck out of my personal space,” she warned, her hand finding the door knob and she opened it slightly before Tamlin’s hand darted out above her shoulder and slammed it close. She heard the click of the lock like the lid of a coffin.

“We seem to have a problem here,” he said, his face beginning to distort into disgust.

“I’m going to scream.”  

“You’re going to shut up and listen if you know what’s good for you.” Something seeped into his voice, but it was impossible to hear anything like sympathy when he was practically spitting in her face.

That familiar ache sank into the pit of her stomach, it dizzied her and unsteadied her and she braced herself further against the door as if waiting for the inevitable.

“Don’t,” she breathed as his hand braced her hip. It took her a moment to realise he was reaching into her pocket and she was too frozen to do anything other than wait for this to end.

“Now what do we have here?” he held her phone between them, cocking his head. He unlocked the screen to show the Dictaphone that had been recording for the past ten minutes. He tutted. “This was a private conversation, Feyre.”

Perhaps the consuming anxiety that was compelling her body to throw up would be helpful in this scenario. Perhaps.

He must have seen the shock and question in her eyes as he said, “You normally have your phone in your back pocket, not the front, and you leaned to the left, as if to get the best sound quality.”

She tried not to think about how he would care to know such details like  _keeping her phone in her fucking back pocket_.

“You’ve blackmailed me and have tried to get into my pants. I don’t fucking trust you and I never will,” she said, steel managing to make its way into her voice.

He ignored her, turning the phone in his hand as he leaned closer. The hot breath fanning across her cheek was repulsive.

“Hello, this is a message for Rhysand. Now’s the time to start saying yes. Remind yourself of who the true enemy is.” His eyes flickered to hers. “Now’s not the time to bargain with the devil.”

Maybe it was the violent tremors that were making its way up her body that was blurring the room. Or maybe it was the tears. Who knew.

“Get away from me,” she managed to whisper.

She watched him end the recording on her phone. She flinched as he slid it back into her pocket.

“You’ve put your trust in the wrong people, Feyre,” he said, his hand lingering on her hip. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you a second chance.”

“You never even had a first chance.” To her shame, her voice was small and weak as she withdrew to that safe part of her brain labelled  _panic_. Her own body betrayed her as tears leaked out of her eyes. He was too close, and he seemed to enjoy her discomfort.

He tutted. “Pity. I hate seeing you upset.”

It was instinct, her hand cracked across his face with a power she didn’t realise she could procure. His head whipped to the side, and he stayed like that for a few moments while she shook with fury and fear.

“ _You’re_ the fucking reason I’m  _upset_  you fucking wankbag.”

The door jolted against her back as someone pounded on it.

“Feyre,” it was Lucien. And she almost sobbed in relief.

She went to open the door to remember it was locked, but Tamlin had already seized her wrists and was pressing into her again.

“ _Stop,”_ she breathed.

“Remember, Feyre,” Tamlin said, his eyes carrying a new sense of urgency. If he was angry about the slap, then he didn’t show it. “Lucien is my vice. He’s important to me. You’re a nobody, replaceable. You’re less than a pawn, you’re a piece of lint to be discarded. And it’s unfortunate. Because I could’ve made you worthwhile. I could’ve kept you safe better than anyone else could. But you rejected my offer, and now the road is dark for you.”

The pounding increased, both in her head and the door behind her. “Feyre? You in there? Tamlin  _I swear to fucking god if you’ve_ -”

Some new found adrenaline coursed through her veins, causing her knee to jolt upwards, finding its target in Tamlin’s crotch.

“Fuck you,” she spat, as he doubled over with a splutter. She shoved him away from her and turned, unlocking and yanking the door open and brushing past Lucien. She wasn’t quite sure of her destination just yet, but the air was too hot here, suffocating her and smothering her until black seeped into the edges of her vision.

This was what falling felt like.


	11. Proclaimed Promises with a Touch of Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is EXCEPTIONALLY NSFW in the middle, like all the way. All the jazz. The kinky shit. You get it.

“Breathe in.”

Lucien brushed away the hair at his girlfriends’ neck, pulling it back to tie it up.

“Breathe out.”

A jagged exhale.

“Name as many American states for me, darling,” Rhys then said.

“New York,” she said, still shaking though now breathing evenly, “California, Texas, Washington…”

This was the second time that Lucien was tending to his girlfriend’s panic attacks thanks to one person. It was difficult to think of the time where Lucien was friends with Tamlin, because now he was object of Lucien’s murder fantasies.

When he saw her come out of Tamlin’s office, panic stricken and slightly hysterical, he barely had time to catch up with her. The glimpse of Tamlin on his knees and groaning was enough for approximately 5000 different scenarios to pass through his head. But Feyre was always his priority.

He had guided her into his office, sat her down, helped her shed her blazer and shirt and called Rhys while Feyre put her head between her knees. He had been in too much of a panic himself to calm her down. So, his phone lay on his desk next to them, Rhys on loud speaker, his voice calm and low. Rhys always seemed to know exactly what to do. She had named 29 European cities between breaths before moving onto American states which would come in much use for pub quizzes.

_Irrelevant._

“Come on, darling, you can name more than that. Think about the really, really cold one.”

“Alaska,” she said, her breaths slower now, evening.

“The one with the stupid spelling,” he hinted.

“Mississippi.”

“The other one.”

“Arkansas.”

“That’s the one. Are you sitting up?”

“Yes,” she said, as she moved to sit upright. Lucien brushed some stray hairs from her damp face, handing her his water bottle.

There were a couple moments of silence as calm settled. Lucien looked up at her from where he knelt. He didn’t trust his voice, so he communicated with touches, brushing his fingertips on the inside of her arm to relax her.

Rhys broke the silence. “Are you capable of telling us what happened, Feyre?”

Lucien watched her eyes squeeze shut.

“He called her into his office,” Lucien ended up saying, saving Feyre from doing so. Rhys knew who  _he_ was by the sheer bitterness in his voice. Lucien still didn’t know what happened in that office and he had too little puzzle pieces and too much imagination.

Feyre pulled out her phone from her pocket and handed it to him.  _The recording_.

“Play it,” she said, her voice hoarse.

Lucien wasn’t quite sure he wanted to. He didn’t know he what he would do if he heard threats or humiliation or  _worse_.

Something dropped inside Lucien’s body.

_Why the fuck didn’t he insist on going with her, why the bloody fuck-_

He heard Rhys let out a slow exhale on the phone, as if he were composing himself.

“Come to my offices, now, please,” Rhys said, “I can’t bare you two being in that fucking building.”

Lucien couldn’t help but agree. It seemed so did Feyre.

“We’ll come now,” she said.

“No, Cerridwen is nearby, she’ll bring you.”

It would have been quicker to take the tube rather than navigate London traffic to the heart of the financial district but neither Lucien or Feyre protested at this decision.

They got ready to go. Feyre cringed as she put on her sweaty shirt again.

With only three weeks of her contract left here, Lucien couldn’t help but feel how he wanted her untangled from this web sooner.

***

Every time Lucien stepped foot into Rhys’ offices, he was taken aback by the normalcy of it all. Stepping out from the lift into the marble foyer, he knew when he would round the corner that dozens of men and women would be sat at their cubicles making deals and assisting clients in the financial market. Did they know that their boss worked undercover?

Probably not. But it still unnerved him.

Cerridwen guided them through the corridors to reach Rhys’ office. Feyre thanked her before they stepped in to immaculate expanse of space.

They found Mor sat on Rhys’ desk, pointing at some manila file as he pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning further back in his chair.

Rhys looked up as soon as the door closed behind them.

“Oh, thank god,” he said. He moved quickly, rounding his desk and walking towards them.

Lucien stopped to let Feyre first be swept into Rhys’ embrace. He watched Rhys fold her against him, murmuring something softly into her ear. She nodded, pressing her face against his shoulder, holding him tighter.

As soon as Feyre was calm, she was a fortress once more. Strong and unwavering, eyes steeled to ice. Like she was angry at herself for feeling something as human as fear.

Rhys kissed her cheek before she parted from him and went to Mor.

When Lucien next stepped into Rhys’ embrace, he almost let himself dissolve.

“Are you alright?” Rhys asked, pulling back slightly to watch his eyes.

“No,” Lucien admitted. “Tamlin has hurt our girlfriend for the second time. Two times too many.”

The time before, when Lucien found her in a toilet cubicle, she had managed to calm herself down. The shadows of panic were there, but she was calm. This time, he had caught her at her worst moment, where she was blinded by anxiety, utterly consumed by it.

Rhys brushed his thumb against Lucien’s cheek.

“She managed to record it?”

“Yes, I think so. I still have her phone.”

“Good,” he nodded, taking a deep breath. “We need to know what happened exactly before we plan anything.”

They turned to their girlfriend who was talking with Mor, their hands clasped together, and their heads bowed.

“Cassian manages self-defence classes in central, I teach some classes. You should come,” Mor was saying.

“That,” said Rhys, taking Lucien’s hand, “is a great idea. You should both go.”

This was the third time Rhys tried to get Lucien to do self-defence, but now he had a bigger incentive than keeping himself safe. Feyre.

“Yeah, okay,” Feyre said, looking towards Lucien for affirmation. He nodded, knowing that there was no way out of this one.

There was no further waiting on what happened to Feyre that day, as the four of them assembled around Rhys’ desk. Mor took Rhys’ desk chair, long blond hair scraped into a high pony table and posture eternally poised. Lucien and Feyre took the two adjacent armchairs before the desk, and Rhys just paced back and forth, as the recording started.

Rhys stopped at the floor to ceiling window when they heard Tamlin move from his chair and towards Feyre. Lucien saw him shove his hands into his pockets, probably to prevent from clenching his fists.

Feyre’s eyes were hard, her mouth set, like she was trying to decipher who this person was on the recording, like she hated the person on there. She shook her head.

They heard him berate her for recording it. And Lucien could almost see it: Tamlin running his hand down Feyre’s side while she was cornered, Tamlin plucking her phone from her pocket, leaning close. Feyre frozen into submission. Alone.

There was some new level of moral compass that Tamlin was acting on, and Lucien pictured himself sauntering into his office, presenting him a letter of resignation before smashing his face into the stupid bloody glass desk. Repeatedly.

And then it got worse.

 _Hello, Rhysand,_ Tamlin said, his voice closer to the microphone. Rhys’ head snapped at the sound of his name, and he marched back to the desk.  _Now’s the time to start saying yes. Remind yourself of who the true enemy is. Now’s not the time to bargain with the devil._

 _Get away from me_ , Feyre had said.

And the recording stopped, just like that.

“That’s not all,” Feyre murmured. She told them about the way he told her she was disposable, worthless in the equation. How she had stepped into her own body again and crippled him by the fucking balls, so she could get out.

Rhys braced his hands on the table. Lucien could practically see the cogs turning in his head. Rhys then said to Mor, “We’ll agree to the terms. Negotiate on clause 3 but accept everything else. When she refutes, we will accept the agreement unconditionally.”

“What the fuck is happening?” Lucien exclaimed.

“This week, I will become Amarantha’s broker.”

The world seemed to spin twice as fast because Lucien’s vision blurred. “You’re taking the piss.”

“When this operation was forced on us, it was a first. We’ve only ever worked within financial crime. To take this woman down, and all her accomplices, Tamlin included, will require an inside job. That’s the only way it will ever be.” His voice was devoid of emotion, mechanical.

The office stilled into a subdued silence, as questions began to form. Mor rose, giving Rhys a nod. She rounded the table and squeezed Feyre’s shoulder before she left.

“What does Tamlin even do with this Amarantha?” Feyre asked, sitting up in her chair.

“Tamlin thinks himself a close confidant. We believe they’ve been having some romantic relations.” _._

“All of this, this working with her, that’s completely separate from the Spring Court?”

Rhys shook his head, sighing. “For now, Tamlin is working completely independently, but soon enough, the Spring Court will be sponsoring Amarantha’s charities.”

Translation: The Spring Court will be inextricably tangled in war dealings. Lucien thought of finding another job, he would need one soon if Amarantha was to be taken down, taking the Spring Court down inevitably with it.

“Why?” Lucien broke out.

“Tamlin is looking to expand overseas. The Spring Court is only a domestic transport company at the moment and Amarantha is seeking for new transport, freight,  _sponsorship._  It’s a gain on both sides. If our speculations are correct, then Spring Court freight holdings will be transporting illegal arms disguised as medical equipment to war torn countries.”

“I’m resigning,” Lucien announced, staring off into the distant buildings. “I’m not going to work under someone who intimidates and blackmails our girlfriend. Or willingly lick the arse of a raging child murderer.”

“No,” said Feyre. “You won’t resign. You will continue to do what you’re doing. Because you’re valuable to Tamlin. And Tamlin is valuable to Amarantha. You’re not a target.”

“Feyre  _no,_  he has crossed all the fucking lines-“

“Feyre’s right,” interjected Rhys, perching himself on the desk in front of them. His inky black hair was messy like he had run his hands through them too much. “You’re not as vulnerable as Feyre. You are indispensable to the Spring Court because you essentially run the damn thing.”

“So what? I’m going to have to continue being fucking amicable to the guy who has done despicable things to our fucking girlfriend is that it?” Lucien cried, he stood, desperate to move. “This is  _bullshit_.”

It was too hot, too unbearably hot.

“Lucien,” said Feyre, her voice stern. She was standing now too, edging towards him like he was a wild animal. “I’ll be okay.”

“We were bloody  _followed_ on Saturday. If I’ve got a pass, then what would have happened to you if I weren’t there?  _What would have fucking happened?_ ”

He thought of Feyre alone, running blindly in the dark and he almost threw up.

Then hands were on his face, calloused and warm. “Look at me, Lucien.”

Rhys came into focus. Lucien focused on the line between his brows, eyes of a deep rich blue and those lips that had traced every inch of his skin.

“You need to calm down,” he said. “You still have a foothold in this, you need to take advantage of it.”

A hand slipped into his and he felt Feyre’s presence like a blanket. Though his eyes never wavered from Rhys’ mouth that was still moving.

“I love you,” he said, “I have since the day of that charity event, you remember that?”

Lucien nodded, his eyes glazing over again. “We fucked in that stupid tiny caretaker’s cupboard.”

Though she heard this story before, Feyre choked out a laugh while Rhys smiled softly. “That’s the one. You threw champagne in my face ten minutes earlier.”

“You were a little prick that night.”

“Don’t lie, my prick’s not little.”

And it was instant, Lucien’s blood was no longer boiling.

Rhys dropped one of his hands to pull Feyre in closer.

“I’ll saw off my own bloody right hand before I let anything happen to either of you,” Rhys murmured.

“Please don’t saw off your right hand, it means a lot to me,” Feyre interjected, kissing Rhys’ shoulder.

Lucien couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips, but it faltered.

“We can’t let Tamlin get away with this,” he said, squeezing Feyre’s hand.

“No,” Rhys said calmly. “We can’t.”

“Wait, what? So, what do you plan on doing?” Feyre asked, looking between them. “What sort of heroic masculine things are you going to do to defend my honour?”

“Hmm, perhaps a duel. Or a joust? Or how about a good old fashioned assassination?” Lucien suggested.

Feyre laughed at that.  _Well done, Lucien, twice in one day. Victory tastes so sweet._

“I’ll just have a chat with him,” Rhys said eventually.

“A chat?” asked Feyre. “Does that involve violence?”

“I don’t need to use violence to scare the shit out of him.”

“That’s kind of hot.”

“I’ll put it down on the kink list,” Rhys laughed, pulling away from their little circle.

“Wait, what? There’s a list?” Feyre exclaimed, bewildered. “Why wasn’t I informed of this list?”

Lucien shared a look with his boyfriend, one that said,  _we may have corrupted our girlfriend._

“It’s pretty old, something Rhys and I did when we were experimenting,” Lucien said, wrapping his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders and pressing his lips to her cheek.

She smiled, looking mischievous. “What’s the dirtiest thing on there?”

“I think it was something like exhibitionism, gags, riding crops etc.”

They watched Feyre’s mouth drop. “Did you make a sex tape?”

Their silence gave her the answer she was looking for.

“Well, now we know what to give our girlfriend for her birthday,” Rhys winked.

***

“I can’t believe you, this is the second bloody time,” said Rhys before turning his head back to Feyre, “Can you see now, darling?”

Feyre nodded, blinking rapidly as he dabbed at her right eye. “All good.”

She was on her knees, the carpet plush and comfortable, her hands tied firmly behind her back.

Lucien stroked at her hair as he crouched before her. “Sorry, babe.”

Secretly, Feyre adored it when they fussed over her. Though they probably already knew that.

She showed Rhys her best smile to assure him that she was okay.

“See, she’s fine,” said Lucien, he traced his fingers across her cheek and brought them to her lips, pushing the sticky substance into her mouth. He smiled. “Clean up your mess, Feyre.”

“If you didn’t have such a kink for coming on peoples faces then we wouldn’t be in this  _mess_ ,” Rhys said. His jab didn’t have bite, however, as Feyre watched his jaw slacken. Lucien’s fingers left her mouth to trace a line down the column of her throat and down, over the overcrossing straps of her lingerie.

“When did we not like it messy?” Lucien asked, his eyes following his fingers as they met the slickness of her cunt.

“Fuck,” she exhaled. He pressed hard against the soft flesh, starting to rub in timed circles.

“Just avoid her eyes next time,” Rhys said. He took her chin with his finger and his thumb, turning her head towards him. “You missed a bit.”

She felt drunk when Rhys leaned in close. The flat of his tongue traced her cheek, hot and wet along her skin.

“That, was fucking hot,” said Lucien.

“That, was fucking gross,” laughed Feyre, scrunching up her nose. Though she did just have fucking cum dripping down her face. Hell awaited. She could sense the licks of fire up her arms as she knelt there, Satan probably saving her a nice seat.

Lucien stopped and withdrew his fingers, to lean in and lick the other side of her face. At least she’d be going to hell with them.

Feyre squealed, tugging at her wrists reflexively.

“How are we supposed to spank and choke you when you’re this bloody cute?” asked Rhys.

Every time they had sex, a new kink seemed to manifest. It was safe to say, there were a lot of kinks.

A year ago, Feyre would have blanched at the things she was doing now. But she never trusted anyone enough to try them.

Until now.

“Will I have to ask nicely?” she said.

Sometimes, she liked to be tied up and fucked into oblivion. Other times she liked it soft and gentle. Sometimes Rhys relinquished control, but others he liked to pin Feyre into the bed and fuck her slowly. She had helped Lucien tie up Rhys twice so far. He liked his hair pulled and sometimes gagged but that was the extent of his submission. He wasn’t like Feyre who seemed to be stepping into newer boundaries.

She liked fucking with Lucien’s power, but she also liked a firm hand around her neck, such strange contradictions.

“Or better yet, beg,” Lucien said, taking her upper arm as Rhys took the other and they helped her stand.

As soon as she was upright, Lucien turned her roughly, bending her over the bed. She felt his hand, firmly press into her back as she let out a whimper.

She heard them murmur behind her, probably plotting.

“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to turn her head.

She felt the sharp sting on her backside as Lucien’s answer. She bit her tongue before giving them the satisfaction of a moan.

It took her a moment to realise that they were kissing. She craned her head to peek, to find that she was very much correct.

She watched Lucien tug at Rhys’ cock. She watched him murmur things onto Rhys’ lips. Filthy, dirty promises, probably. She ached to hear them.

Lucien broke away first and ordered more audibly this time.

“Sit down.”

Lucien then turned to her, his hands smoothing up the back of her thighs before he said, “You’ve been spoiled.”

He took her arm and gently rolled her over and sat her up. Feyre thought back to the two orgasms brought on by wandering fingers and mouths on the sofa thirty minutes prior.

She looked beside her where Rhys sat at the edge of the bed. His sex hair and lazy grin was showing.

Then she understood.

It took some considerable manoeuvring to get to him when she had no help from her arms. Rhys tugged at the thicker straps of her lingerie to help her into place as she straddled his lap.

“Comfortable?” Rhys enquired, stroking some hair out of her face.

She nodded, wanting to kiss him. Lucien came into her peripheral.

“Condom, or no condom?” he asked. At home, they didn’t really need them when Feyre was on the pill, but they still asked.

“No condom,” she said.

Rhys sat upright, pulling her closer and finally obliging her a kiss.  His hands rubbed at her breasts as they shared a breath. She was dizzy as his tongue brushed against hers, their lips moving with one another. He controlled the pace, a hand moving up to hold her face still. She faltered as soon as fingers slipped between her legs. She felt the heat of his body behind her as Lucien rubbed at her clit before sliding through her folds to fill her with his fingers. She made another intelligible noise, no longer able to focus on kissing, but Rhys was already moving his mouth along her jaw, pushing her head back to kiss and nip at her throat.

When Feyre was guided down onto Rhys cock, she buried her face into the crook of his neck, trying to remember how to breathe.

“You okay, darling?” Rhys whispered in her hair. She nodded, incapable of speaking, as she adjusted to fullness, the pressure. Without her hands, she was already unbalanced. And the angle worked against her, forcing her to shift her knees and hips to find a way to move up and down.

“Please, I can’t-“

She felt Rhys’ hands brace against her hips, as he helped her along with each slight rise and fall. It was more of a rocking motion than anything, but she wasn’t reprimanded so she kept going.

“That’s it, like that,” Rhys assured.

Her thighs burned, and she emitted soft moans against Rhys’ shoulder. She felt another presence at her back. Lucien pulled at her hair, removing her head from Rhys’ shoulder to sit up right.

“Look up, love,” he ordered. “Breathe.”

She realised she had closed her eyes, overcome with sensations of Rhys filling her, the throbbing of her clit, the firm grip of Rhys’ hands on her hips, Lucien’s hands tugging her hair.

“Focus, Feyre,” he whispered into her ear. “I need you to come before Rhys.”

She hummed, too incoherent to answer properly. His hand squeezed her backside, hard.

“Focus,” he said again.

Feyre couldn’t will her thighs to lift, and Rhys seemed to notice, because he stroked his hands up and down them, massaging his fingers along them.

Lucien gently pushed Rhys’ shoulder to lie back against the bed, probably to stop Feyre from being tempted to lean into him again.

“Please,” she whispered again. “I  _can’t_.”

“Don’t fucking move,” Lucien said to Rhys. She craned her head to look to Lucien, who had one knee on the bed to get closer to her back. She gratefully leaned against him, breathing hard, watching Rhys bite into his knuckle. If she had her hands she would be running them down Rhys’ chest right now.

“Move your hips,” Lucien ordered. She obliged him, only capable of grinding down.  The fit was deeper like this, more dizzying. “Good girl, that’s it.”

Lucien moved closer, pressing against her back as one hand slid around her waist to fit between her legs and his other hand braced firmly against her throat.

She wasn’t quite sure what exactly was the noise that escaped her lips, but as her oxygen was stolen and his fingers rubbed against her clit, ­­­­­­­­­­she came around Rhys’ cock, her body tensing as the first waves gripped her. Her head lolled to Lucien’s shoulder and he gently removed his hand from her throat as she trembled.

She felt his lips on her cheek. Translation:  _are you okay?_

“Yes,” she whispered.  _Yes yes yes yes yes_

Rhys brought himself back up to a sitting position, his jaw was clenched and strained as stroked her arms.

“Wait, you haven’t come yet,” she said quietly, starting to rock her hips again. “Do you need me to-“

Her hands were suddenly free, and she rolled at her wrists, sighing in relief. Lucien kissed the top of her head.

Rhys gripped her waist and slowly pulled her off him. “Our kinky shit boyfriend is delaying me.”

Feyre looked down with a mischievous grin, “Having a hard time?”

“Our girlfriend is so bloody punny,” interjected Lucien, who kissed Rhys over Feyre’s shoulder. She watched their mouths move, wet and hard and fast.

 _I am pretty punny,_  she thought.

Having free reign of her hands again was liberating. She touched Rhys’ chest and ran her hand down the hard lines of him, watching his muscles contract.

She slid off Rhys’ lap, allowing Lucien to press closer to their boyfriend. She wobbled on her unsteady legs and gripped the bedside table for stability as if she had just done 100 squats.

She heard Lucien move behind her before he asked,  _“_ Feyre, love, you alright?” His hands slipped round her waist.

Feyre nodded, smiling up at him to reassure him. “Just give me a couple of mins.”

Another kiss to her forehead before she slipped away from his arms and into the bathroom.

After washing her face, cooling her sweaty skin, and finding feeling back in her legs, she emerged to find Lucien already at work with Rhys. The latter was flat on his back, a few pillows under his hips, legs spread as Lucien knelt before him with his fingers inside of him.

She made her way towards them, and they both turned their heads to watch. Feyre had taken off her lingerie, as it had dug into her skin. But they made no comments, only drinking her in.

Feyre climbed on the bed next to him and lay down on her side, pressing herself flush against Rhys and resting her head on his arm that he extended for her. His hand caressed her back absently.

“The bets are on: will Rhys be able to last more than a minute?” Feyre commentated. She stroked her hand across her chest, his skin hot.

“Put a tenner on  _yes_ , I’ve made him wait a lot longer than this,” said Lucien, pumping more lube out the bottle.

“Hmm, I have little faith. I raise your stakes to a twenty and say no.”

Rhys made a noise of opposition. “Are you both bloody  _gambling_  on my ability to hold off a flipping orgasm?”

“Shhh, relax,” she kissed Rhys’ cheek. She looked to Lucien with a wink, “I’ll time it.”

“I’m so breaking up with both of you after this.” It was a soft grumble, and Lucien grinned, leaning over Rhys to kiss him as he put his fingers in his boyfriend once more. She watched intently, as their mouth moved, as Rhys was barely able to compose himself. It was so fascinating to analyse a kiss so closely from an outsiders view. She too often found herself frozen in her need to watch.

The kiss ended with Lucien biting at Rhys’ lip before he moved back up his body.

Feyre leaned up and brushed her hand through Rhys’ hair, watching the silky black strands slide across her fingers. She often found herself needing to keep her hands busy. They found very quickly that Feyre would not and could not keep still. Even when tied up.

“Are you purring?” she mused, looking down at him, their faces close.

“You’re stroking my hair while Lucien is taking forever to prep and bloody prime, I may as well fall asleep.”

Feyre reached down and gripped his neglected cock. She brushed her thumb at the tip, spreading the wetness there, watching as he sucked in a breath. Feyre felt warm all of a sudden, her cheeks flushed. The power over their pleasure was dizzying. She felt slick again, simply by watching Rhys react. From her touch.

“Are you awake now?” she whispered.

“Oi,” said Lucien, slapping her wrist away. “Don’t touch him yet, I’m planning on dragging this out. And you’re technically cheating.”

A laugh escaped her lips. “Yes, sir.”

Lucien gave her look as if to say,  _am I going to have to tie you up again?_

The look she sent back said,  _I’ll be good, I promise._

_I’ll be the judge of that, Archeron._

They turned to Rhys, who was truly struggling with orgasm denial.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” He asked, squeezing his eyes shut. He put his hands on his face for extra measure.

“Hard and slow,” Lucien assured.

Feyre looked to Lucien, who looked exceptionally amused, as if this is the perfect outcome.

_He had patience of a god._

Lucien slowly put a condom on, and Rhys let out a moan as Feyre brushed her fingers along the sensitive skin of his abdomen.

“Open your eyes, hotshot. I want to see your face when I slide into you. Inch. By. Inch.”

Rhys was flushed when he removed his hands. She rarely saw him like this, submissive and pliant. He was the physically strongest in here and there was something so heartwarming that he would only share his most vulnerable moments with them and them alone.

She watched intently as Rhys’ jaw clenched, as Lucien finally gave into his demands. They communicated silently, locked eyes and slight nods.

Lucien began slowly rocking into him with slow, indulgent thrusts and Rhys let out a strangled breath, his composure chipping away.

Feyre took his hand considering he didn’t know what to do with them.

She tended to him, brushing the hair from his face and kissing his face, his neck and shoulder. Indulging in some selfish part of her that liked intimacy of softness and tracing the heat of Rhys’ skin beneath her lips.

“Use your teeth, love,” Lucien ordered.

She obliged, finding a rather good spot on Rhys’ neck to sink her teeth into a little bit. It earned a deep, throaty groan.

“Faster?” Lucien asked.

“Please,” Rhys said, his breath ragged.

“Too bad.” Lucien moved a hand from Rhys’ hip to slap at his thigh. “Don’t come yet.”

The sound that came out of Rhys’ mouth could have been acceptance or protest.

Feyre was losing the bet, but watching Rhys like this, she didn’t quite care.

“Touch yourself, Feyre,” Lucien ordered roughly, dragging his eyes down Feyre’s body. He read her easily. She was still on her side, pressing herself against Rhys as she snaked a hand down between her legs.

Rhys turned his head to hers with his hand firmly in her hair, and their noses brushed as their mouths found one another.

“Oh. Fuck,” she breathed against his lips.

Sweat gathered at Rhys’ forehead, wetting his hair line. Lucien concentrated on moving with those slow controlled strokes. His face succumbed quickly to pleasure. She saw his hands still gripping Rhys’ hips, hard enough to leave bruises.

Her fingers were slick as she rocked against her hand. She felt herself rise again at the smell and sound of sex and sweat, at the noises coming from Rhys’ mouth.

Lucien reached down and stroked at Rhys’ cock, his thumb brushed at the slit. It was enough.

Rhys came all over his chest, moaning with every tremor that shook him. Feyre followed quickly after, too consumed in the image before her. A moan left her lips as she panted against Rhys’ shoulder.

Lucien slowed down again, watching them in awe, eyes tracing Rhys torso and abdomen and the mess left there.

 _He really did have a kink for that_. Well, it was written on the list.

She waited a few moments to gather herself, her body still thrumming from the last orgasm she pulled from herself.

Eventually, Feyre picked up the lube and sat up. Lucien began to rock into him again as he stroked at Rhys’ thighs and hips.

Rhys was practically incoherent.

“Hello,” she said on Lucien’s shoulder. She kissed her way up to his neck.

He didn’t respond, only caught her lips with his. She let him dominate her mouth. It was sloppy and uncontrolled, but Lucien was multitasking and Feyre was just enjoying his tongue in her mouth.  _When did she become so primitive?_

Kinky boyfriends: 105

Old Feyre: 10

Those ten points were for retaining some of Feyre’s banter in bed, otherwise her bedroom habits were pretty much revolutionised.

Her hand fell down Lucien’s back,  _prepped and primed_  as Rhys liked to label this business.

Lucien’s hips faltered as her fingers helped him along.

She had done this a couple of times before. She remembered quite clearly the first time they did it to her, with Lucien’s fingers inside her and his mouth on her cunt. They happened to teach each other the art of getting one another off, and Feyre was now well practised.

Rhys looked like he was going to orgasm again, his cock still slightly hard.

“Fuck.  _Fuck,”_ Lucien choked out, his hands left Rhys’ hips as he leaned further over him.  

She adored making him lose it. In this moment, she held full reigns and it was as exciting as it was consuming.

His thrusts quickened, his breath hitching before he groaned.  _There._

Soft pants filled the room, Lucien’s face devoid of any frown, just pure bliss.

He sat up and grabbed her face with firm fingers and kissed her hard, too drunk to give words. She smiled and fell back besides Rhys as soon as they pulled away. It was this post sex haze that when they were the most naked.

Lucien leaned over Rhys, forgetting the mess on his chest and kissed him too. She watched them kiss in that loving, grateful way. Rhys’ hand winding in Lucien’s hair.

“Ah shit,” Lucien exclaimed as he pulled away, sticky.

Feyre had already thrown a packet of wipes they kept in the bedside table at him.

“Clean up your mess, sailor,” she teased, wiping her hands.

Lucien cleaned up Rhys before he cleaned himself, slapping her thighs when she made more puns about seamen.

Rhys laughed, pulling her into him, her head slotting besides his. He tugged her leg over his waist.

A phone chimed and Lucien returned from the bathroom to retrieve it from the dresser.

Rhys and Feyre ogled their boyfriends backside.

“He has really good thighs,” Feyre observed.

“Mmm, tell me about it.”

“Are you two objectifying me?” Lucien quipped, turning and getting back on the bed, phone in hand.

“Yes,” Rhys and Feyre said simultaneously.

He glared at them, though it wavered. Lucien was too self conscious for his own good.

Lucien leaned back against the pillows beside Rhys.

“What is it?” Feyre asked, she propped her chin on Rhys’ chest.

“Um. It’s my mum.” His eyebrows were knitted together as he stared at his phone.

They shot up.

“Is she okay?” said Rhys.

“Yeah, she seems fine. She just doesn’t usually text.”

Feyre recalled the day Lucien sat down and relayed his past. His father, his mother and his brother.

The abuse, the hellish upbringing, the questionable paternity.

“She just said,” Lucien said with a sigh, “that’s she’s looking forward to see me at the engagement party.”

His oldest brother, Eris, was finally getting married at 39. It was in Hertfordshire, the county that Lucien grew up in for half of his childhood.

“We need to talk about that,” Rhys said, wrapping his arm around Feyre absently.

“What the engagement party?” Lucien got off the bed and rummaged through the draws to find some boxers to pull on.  “Yeah, I’ve decided. I’m going alone. I don’t want either of you there.”

Feyre looked up at Rhys, finding worry reflect in his eyes too.

“We’re not letting you go alone, Lucien,” Rhys said.

“Yes, you are. My family are fucking foul. What don’t you get about that?”

“And what don’t you get about how stupid it is to go back to your abusive family on your own?” Feyre exclaimed.

She overheard a phone call with one of his brothers the other week, one that involved too many vile slurs and insults to mention. Lucien went to bed at 5:00pm that day.

“ _Don’t_ , both of you. I’ve fought this battle my whole life.”

Feyre wanted to scream at him, but Rhys squeezed her arm gently.

“And you don’t need to fight this battle alone anymore,” Rhys urged, though his voice was steady.

Lucien looked exceptionally torn, and he paced the bedroom, shoving his hair into a bun at the back of his head.  

“Lucien,” Feyre uttered, scrambling off the bed. She felt exceptionally vulnerable when she was stark naked in front of them, but she brushed it aside. “We’re a team now. You need to let us help you.”

She tentatively ran her hand down his arm to slip her hand into his. He stared down at their entwined fingers before sighing.

“Are both of you insisting on coming?”

“Yes,” Rhys said while Feyre nodded.

“Then we need a plan. Because I’m not explaining polyamory to my family who still think gay people are mentally ill. It’s the reason they never knew about Rhys and me and-”

Feyre threw her arms around Lucien’s neck and melted against him. This  _it’s my battle_   _going solo_ business was the reason Feyre was so vulnerable going into Tamlin’s office. She so desperately wanted to be there for Lucien and protect him from the brothers who verbally, emotionally and physically abused him throughout his life.

“We’ll protect you,” she said in his ear.

“I know,” he whispered back, kissing her cheek. He squeezed again before letting go. “I’ll go put the kettle on.”

***        

Tamlin whistled as he pissed. It was something he heard from the radio. Something called  _despacito_  or some foreign shit. Who knew.

He barely registered the door swinging open behind him. He shook and zipped up as he heard the taps run.

Tamlin turned to leave, he had a date with whiskey after all. The bar would be closing soon.

“Aren’t you going to wash your hands?”

He stopped mid-step, registering the voice that seemed to follow him like the plague. High school, sixth form and now the working life. At least he didn’t follow him to University, Tamlin would have probably killed him by then. He was close now.

“Rhysand fucking Spera, what a coincidence,” he uttered, turning casually to meet his eyes.

“Trust me, this isn’t a coincidence, Tamlin.”

Tamlin watching his arch enemy wipe at his hands with a paper towel.

“What the fuck are you doing here then?” Tamlin snapped, closing the gap.

“I was going to shake your hand, but you’re still a dirty bastard.”

Something flared inside of him, something hot.

Tamlin surveyed him, scanning his impeccable suit underneath the long black trench coat, like he had just walked out of the tossing 1920s investigating murders or some shit.

In another life, Tamlin couldn’t help but feel that they could have been friends now. They were. Once.

“What is it, Spera?” Then it hit him, slowly. “Did your little bitch deliver my message?”

Truth be told, Tamlin didn’t think Feyre as a little bitch. She was refreshing, like a cool glass of water on a summer morning. She had a spark in her eyes that Tamlin liked to test. Could he diminish it or enflame it? Seemed to be both, depending on the occasion. But he was a bit peeved with her. He had to ice his balls for a couple of hours after their last meeting.

But he wanted to crack the facade that was Rhysand Spera. The devil in disguise. And Feyre seemed to be a weak spot.

Rhys, however, remained impassive. Not even flinching at the derogatory jab towards Feyre.

“You got what you wanted, Tammy. I’m now sitting beside you on the palm of Amarantha’s hand.”

Tamlin winced at the nickname, some of his masculinity flaking away.

“You accepted all the terms?”

“I did,” he said, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. “It seems we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other.”

Tamlin huffed a laugh. He wanted to see the back of Rhysand. The prick was already responsible for the death of his father’s name all those years ago as well as stealing his vice’s attentions. But Amarantha wanted him. And what Amarantha wanted, Tamlin wanted. And she needed a new broker, the last one died in a terrible torture accident. Truly awful. And when Rhys turned up on the scene, a persuasive and successful negotiator, Amarantha showed her interest in him instantly.

“How fortunate,” Tamlin mused, rubbing his chin.

There were a few moments of silence as they surveyed one another.

“So, you just wanted to come here and inform me of your new job?” Tamlin asked.

“Yes, pretty much. Though I also wanted to consolidate our new relationship with a promise.”

“Hmm, and what’s that?”

Rhys took a step closer. He was taller than Tamlin, much to his dismay.  _Could one get height surgery?_

He barely had time to compartmentalise that thought because Rhys had seized the back of his head and all Tamlin saw in the next few split seconds was the porcelain of a sink before his nose met it with a resounding crack.

The agony splintered through him, his legs betraying his body as he slid the floor.

He gasped against the blood that flowed down his face.

“ _What in the fuck?!”_ he roared. The searing pain was indicative of a broken nose.

Rhysand crouched beside him, no longer sporting a smile, but something much more sinister.

“I’ve learned something today,” Rhysand said. “I’m much more inclined to use violence than I last thought.”

_What the fuck what the fuck what in the fuckedy fuck_

“You’re  _dead,_  Spera,” he grit out. “Once I tell Amarantha about this, you’re fucking done for.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Rhys countered, rubbing at the stubble of his jaw. “You see, we’re in the big leagues now Tammy. You don’t want to kill the new broker, now do you?”

“Then you’ve just put your little girlfriend in the cross fire, you piece of shit.”

Quite frankly, Tamlin didn’t want to see Feyre hurt. But she was a pawn that could be knocked off a board. He told Amarantha just that, and their fucking bizarre three-way relationship.

“Wrong again,” Rhys said, clicking his tongue. “Braeside, Shetland Islands. Sound familiar?”

Something fell to the bottom of his stomach. He had hidden her there for a reason. How Rhysand had found her was beyond him. This was the reason he had hid her. “Touch my mother and you’re  _dead_.”

“Such empty death threats. Have you ever even killed, Tammy?” No. Tamlin hadn’t. Something in his eyes must have betrayed him because Rhys continued, “I thought not. Now, I don’t normally like bringing innocent women into the  _crossfire,_  but I will if necessary.”

Rhys reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture. Tamlin struggled to focus for a moment but he almost lost it when he did. It was his mother sitting on her sofa, smiling broadly with a cup of tea in hand.  _This was taken in her fucking house._

“What did you  _do?”_

“A friend dropped in to keep your mother company, she seemed a bit lonely. After all, you have placed her on a Scottish archipelago. Have you been ignoring your mothers calls recently?”

The burning in his face contended with the burning in his stomach. He ached to throw his fist. But Rhysand had him in a figurative chokehold.

“It’s not nice, is it?” Rhysand said. “Knowing someone you love is in danger. Threats are very serious these days, Tamlin. Especially in this line of business.”

Tamlin just glared at him, trying to put the force of a fist in it. But Rhysand Spera remained completely passive, his eyes cavernous pits.  _How many people had this man killed? How many people had this man brought to their knees?_

Rhys slapped his face in an amicable manner, knocking his nose and making him grunt. He went to stand but stopped. Then he crouched down again, leaning in close until those cavernous pits turned into a swirling indigo abyss. His heart thudded.

“One more thing, before I leave you to wash you hands and get someone to sort out that nose of yours.”

“ _What_ ,” he ground out. Tamlin felt physically sick as Rhys gripped the back of his neck. If it weren’t for the utter flaming contempt in his eyes, one would think this could pass off as an embrace.

Rhys spoked with slowly, clearly, without hesitation. “If you speak a bad word to Feyre Archeron in your despicable attempts to intimidate her and humiliate her, they will be your last fucking words. You so much as look in her direction with anything other than basic civil respect, I will spoon out your fucking eyes and make you eat them for tea.” The fingers around his neck gripped so tightly, that no doubt Tamlin would find bruises there the next morning. “And if you lay one of your fucking filthy fingers on her again, I will perfectly orchestrate the destruction of everything you know dearly and the last person you will see as you take you dying breath, will be  _me_.  _That_  is my promise to you.”

The malice in his eyes, the sheer clarity of his voice. Tamlin believed him. Rhysand was more than he ever played off to be. A man that wore many masks. The true fucking devil. No wonder Amarantha wanted him as her broker.

Maybe Lucien and Feyre were manipulated into a relationship with Rhysand, maybe he was collecting some sick type of harem.

“We’re on the same playing field now, Tammy. And I will always,  _always_  be one point ahead.” Rhys looked down at him and pulled out a tissue from his pocket, dropping it in his lap. “You’ve got blood on your shirt.”

Tamlin breathed a sigh of relief as Rhys exited without another word. Rhysand belonged to another world, one with fire and brimstone. Where darkness always prevailed.

He thought about informing Amarantha anyway of Rhys’ assault and sending a plane ticket to his mother.

But he could already see Amarantha laughing in his face.  _How weak and spineless you are, Tamlin. This isn’t a fucking playground._

Ianthe had reminded him of that too many times.

So, Tamlin gritted his teeth, got up and washed his hands.


	12. Red Wine with a Side of Turpitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: confrontations, lies, engagement parties, very wealthy white people, having to hide dat bisexuality TM, seriously shitty people, proper northern girlfriends, more toilet cubicles, sad boyfriends, drowning in alcohol, open bars are dangerous folks, propositions, more inclinations for violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very long. Like 9k words long...enjoy!!

“What should I wear?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable in,” Lucien said, pressing at the coffee machine repeatedly.

“So I should just go in bloody trakkies is that it?”

Lucien made a noise that was similar to a growl and smacked the side of the machine. “We need a new coffee maker, I’ll put that on the priority list.”

“ _Lucien,_ ” Feyre exclaimed, “What the hell should I wear?”

Lucien finally looked at his girlfriend, his eyes softening. “I like you in that blue dress. Floats around your legs. With the…halter neck thing. You should wear that dress.”

Feyre smiled, rolling up her shirt sleeves to find something to do with her hands. Her cheeks heated. “I didn’t know you liked that dress.”

“I like you in everything that you wear, especially when you’re wearing my clothes. I particularly love it when you wear nothing. But I really  _really_ fancy the pants off you in that dress.” The coffee machine began to whir and Lucien threw his arms up in victory. “My prayers were answered.”

Feyre was staring at him a bit wistfully. She hadn’t kissed him in a couple of hours. She was probably having withdrawal symptoms.

She took a step towards him.

Then she froze.

Tamlin sauntered into the room and walked straight to the fridge, newspaper in hand. But the fact that he was holding a copy of the fucking  _Metro_  did not deter from the main point of focus.

What was most startling was the fact that he looked like he had a nose job, with the bandages covering most of his face and his bruised and swollen.

She looked to Lucien, who seemed to have stilled also, assessing his boss with open shock on his face.

“Lucien,” Tamlin said as he closed the fridge, now a tub of salad in his hand. “Email me the updates on the accounts as soon as possible.”

His eyes flickered very briefly to Feyre but remained on Lucien.

“Yeah, of course. I will email you them this afternoon.”

“Great, thanks,” he said before whisking off out of the room.

Feyre mouthed at Lucien,  _What the fuck?_

She was almost blinded by the grin that encompassed his face.

“I think I know where our boyfriend disappeared off to Friday night,” he said.

She thought back, when Lucien and herself were dozing on the sofa with the TV humming in front of them. When Rhys came downstairs dressed criminally good and told them he had ‘business’ to attend to. They barely acknowledged him because they were too tired. Just a few mumbles and  _love you’s._ They went to bed without him and woke up the Saturday morning to find Rhys downstairs playing James Blunt and cleaning the kitchen.

Surely.  _Surely_  it wasn’t Rhys. Tamlin could have been banged up by anyone,  _anything_.

But Feyre knew better than that. She felt a bit uncertain of how to process the situation. The idea of Rhys getting angry enough to become violent was so foreign. She had never seen Rhys lash out to such an extent, he was calm and collected to the point that when he was angry, it came across as intense upset more than anything.

As soon as they made it back to Lucien’s office, his coffee in hand, she slipped her phone from her back pocket and dialled Rhys. He picked up on the second ring with the greeting, “Hello darling, to what do I owe-“

“What did you  _do_?” Feyre whisper shouted.

“Hmm, I may need specifics. I just had some quinoa, but I spilt a bit over my laptop-“

“ _Tamlin_.”

“Ohhh, I see. We had a chat.” His voice was smooth like silk, without guilt.

“By a chat, do you mean you conveniently placed Tamlin in front of your fist?”

There was a pause. “More like his face must have accidentally smashed into a sink.”

“Rhysand!” she exclaimed, uncertain of why she was angry at all. Was this anger? Or was this just shock? That someone would go to this extent to defend her, to protect her. From the way Tamlin blatantly ignored her, Feyre considered the possibilities of what Rhys had said to stop him from even communicating with her.

“What? It was an accident.”

Then, her lips pulled upwards, and she slumped into the chair before Lucien’s desk. “I don’t know what to say.”

Lucien took her phone from her hand and put it on speaker. “So, this was your little errand you attended to on Friday. Why didn’t you tell us you smashed up Tamlin’s face?”

“ _I_ didn’t smash up his face. The sink did. I just gave him a little push.”

“No one has done anything like that for me,” Feyre whispered. He might as well have kissed her considering the flush that ran down her neck.

“Rhys, please continue to smash faces in for Feyre’s honour, she’s smiling like crazy right now,” Lucien said, falling into the chair beside her own.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to use violence?” she mused.

Rhys paused again. “I wasn’t. Until he was standing right in front of me. And the sink looked like it could use a face to smash against it.”

“ _That doesn’t even make sense._ ”

“Are you mad at me?”

Feyre decided that being mad was futile. She had a James Bond boyfriend. This had to be part of the package.

He didn’t break Tamlin’s nose to defend her honour because she was weak and needed protecting (no matter how much they joked about it), he did it because he cared. Though Feyre did feel weak around Tamlin, she also felt like being protected and defended was okay sometimes. It was tiring being strong all the time.

Yet, she still vowed to herself that if Tamlin tried anything like that again she would break his nose a second time. Mor had taught her the week prior in their first lesson.

“It was an accident,” Feyre smiled. “Why would I be mad?”

Rhysand laughed. “Just making sure, so I don’t need to prepare for sleeping on the sofa tonight.”

“We have  _three_  guest bedrooms. Why on earth would you be sleeping on the sofa?”

She only registered that she said  _we_. Instead of  _you._  But neither of them said anything at all.

“Because that’s the universal punishment for stupid boyfriends.”

Feyre was smiling so hard into her hand. “I love you so much.”

“Second that,” said Lucien, sipping at his coffee.

“I love you both. Let me know if Tamlin steps out of line, I have some death threats to uphold,” Rhys said.

Feyre gaped. “ _Rhys-“_

“Love you, bye.”

The phone call dropped off.

“He is such a little  _shit_ ,” Feyre exclaimed.

She still had questions. Particularly concerning threats. Death. Threats.  _He’s joking Feyre. No he’s not joking Feyre, James Bond boyfriend, remember?_

Then she reflected on who and what Rhys actually was beyond the soft, caring boyfriend who would always pull her into a cuddle while watching Strictly on the sofa. Who would always make her a cup of tea in the morning and read terrible erotica in a Birmingham accent to cheer her up. He liked perfectly tailored trousers, cashmere jumpers and waltzing in kitchens because the tiles are most polished there. Noughties pop and  _three_  sugars in his tea.

She wondered what sort of mask he had to put on to be  _not_ -Rhys. To be something terrifying and violent enough to protect her against a CEO colluding with a war criminal. To be something terrifying and violent enough to fit into such a crowd, and now work  _for_  a woman who profited from war crimes so despicable while managing charities for the very peoples lives whose she was destroying.

She asked Lucien whether he had ever seen scary and dangerous Rhys.

He said no, though he had seen arsehole, arrogant sly bastard Rhys when they first met at a charity gala. Back when Rhys was tasked to take down Tamlin’s father.

Feyre still wondered.

***

It took them an hour to get out of London.

And now they were stuck on the motorway, an accident half a mile ahead. At a complete bloody standstill.

Feyre sighed, her hands leaving the wheel as she slumped back into her seat.

Lucien watched her from the back seat as she got flustered from the heat of the car and the frustration of already being late.

Rhys had asked them if someone else wanted to drive to the engagement party and Feyre happily volunteered. She was enjoying the leisure of driving the automatic BMW at the national speed limit for so long, until they were here. Stuck.

“We’ll only be half an hour late, that’s pretty fashionable,” said Rhys, tapping at the screen on the dashboard to reroute and try and get there quicker.

Frankly, Lucien was glad to be delayed. He still wasn’t in the right headspace to see his family again. It had been last Christmas when he plucked up the courage to go and see them. He had left Rhys with his own family and headed off to Hertfordshire for the day.

He remembered the dark black cloud that hung after him for days after.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

If he were, he probably would have pulled over to throw up somewhere.

But now, watching his real family squabble over the satnav, he was weirdly content. Anxiety and dread pushed aside for the meantime.

They had made a plan. It was a simple one. They agreed that being openly polyamorous was a no go considering it required explanation beyond what they were willing to give. They also agreed that Rhys and Lucien being in a romantic relationship was also something for his family to pick up on and most likely ridicule considering his brothers and father were made up of the most toxic masculine genes. So, they decided that for the night, Feyre and Lucien were a perfectly heterosexual, monogamous couple. Rhys would be the tag a long friend. Something that wouldn’t gain any more negative attention.

Lucien was brought back to the confines of the car to observe his lovers bickering.

“We continue on the motorway,” Rhys asserted. “Do not take that exit.”

“I can circuit around!”

“It’s a 45 minute detour, Feyre.”

Arguing with Rhys was quite painful sometimes, because he was too calm.

“I can drive super fucking fast in this thing.”

“Oh, yes, let’s get pulled over and fined, at least another twenty minutes with the breathalyser and flirting with a police officer. Don’t forget the hundred quid fine in the post. And those points on your license.”

Feyre flicked at Rhys’ arm in anger and he flicked her back.

Lucien smiled at their antics.

“You’re doing me bloody head in,” Feyre uttered, flicking him again.

This time, Rhys caught her wrist and kissed the inside of it softly. “I love you too.”

She softened, dragging her focus back to the road when they started to roll forward.

***

They finally pulled into the manor house where the engagement party was taking place. It was a hotel as well as a country club with grand enough architecture for Feyre to start speaking of  _Jacobean_ and  _renaissance_ features.

Lucien smiled at her sudden excitement, although he really was struggling to understand what the hell she was on about when she spoke of mullioned windows and then pointed out the  _central façade_. It was difficult to see because it was so dark, but lights were positioned to illuminate the house and the paths below in a warm glow.

“Do we get a tour at this party or what?” she asked, tearing off her trainers, almost bouncing in her seat.

Rhys snorted as he put on his tie with expert ease. “I’m sure we’ll be able to sneak off later.”

Lucien handed Feyre her heels and she slipped them on as she swore under her breath.

“We need a new code word. Feeding the cats doesn’t work here. The suggestion box is open,” Feyre said.

“ _Bloomin hell, I have a sudden bout of diarrhoea_ ,” Rhys said.

“ _Blow me, I suddenly have internal bleeding,”_ Lucien suggested.

Feyre snapped her fingers. She said seriously, “ _That,_  is a shout. We pretend one of us is feeling ill. I’ll take one for the team.”

Lucien straightened his own tie. “I want your best acting, Archeron.”

“Yes, _Vanserra._ I’m a very good actress, I’ll have you know,” she said. “Try not to look at Rhys like I want to undress him and pretend to have a migraine on request. Got it.”

Lucien groaned. He couldn’t bare the thought of looking at Rhys  _platonically_. He said just that.

“You both will suffer great difficulty. I am a bachelor from now on. A  _closeted_ bisexualone at that. Not that I would find any of the men in there attractive considering they sound like bigoted arseholes.”

Rhys kissed them briefly behind the tinted windows of the car before they all clambered out. It was bitterly cold, and Lucien immediately went to Feyre and tucked her into his side.

“Thank you, my personal furnace,” she muttered, shoving her hands into her coat pockets.

“You’re northern, you’re not supposed to be cold,” Lucien mused.

“Shut up, I’ve had to acclimatise to the polluted confines of London.”

_Touché._

She wobbled in her heels as they walked on the gravel path.

The faint hum of music sounded through the house, some guests only just turning up also. They were only 45 minutes late after all, and this was indeed, as Rhys suggested, a fashionable time of arrival.

Lucien’s heart rate sped up with every step as the realisation that his family were in that house came crashing down. He seemed to have suppressed the dread well.

He needed a drink.

“Shit, what are we going to do about drinking?” Lucien asked as Rhys materialised at his other side.

“You two drink,” Rhys said. “I’ll drive back.”

“You sure?” Feyre asked. “I can do it.”

“I’m sure, I want to be clear headed in case I have to smash any faces in.”

Lucien barked out a laugh. Rhys winked, but Lucien didn’t have any doubt that if trouble arose, his boyfriend would be first on the scene.

They reached the threshold of the entrance, watching rich white people mingle through the foyer.

“Great, I’m attractive  _and_ brown. I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb,” Rhys murmured.

“Bets are on, how many times will Rhys be asked,  _where are you from? No, where are you really from?_ ” Feyre said.

Rhys sucked in a breath in thought, “1/4 of the people I talk to.”

“A solid 1/3,” Lucien said, knowing the people in here. After all, the amount of times he was asked  _Oh Lucien, where have you been on holiday? You’re_ so  _tanned._

_No Debora, you pasty ass bitch,_ he would want to say.  _This is my fucking skin._

As they joined the line for the cloak room, Lucien caught a flash of red. He turned away on instinct. With Feyre now taller, he could much more easily hide behind her. He didn’t catch who it was, but he wanted to avoid all of them anyway.

6 older brothers. All of which he hated. Except for Taren, the fourth oldest. The only one who didn’t partake in his hellish upbringing. But he let it happen anyway. So, the animosity still lingered.

Feyre hissed against the cold biting at her legs. “This feels like a cult.”

“Hmm, yes,” Rhys said, “ _Cheers to the happy couple, now please bring forward your sacrificial offerings._ ”

Lucien was grateful for the two people either side of him.

They finally managed to hand off their coats and Lucien found it really hard not to check out Rhys in the exceptionally dapper suit he was in. So he focused on Feyre, on her long legs and the silky dress that flowed just above the knee. Her bare back, warm beneath his hand. Her hair tied back into an exquisite bun, courtesy of Rhys. It made her face sharper, and she carried this ice so beautifully.

They were welcomed into the grand foyer by waitering staff, handed champagne flutes, and ushered into the large reception room where round tables filled one half of it, the other an open floor for mingling, and supposedly dancing later on. There must have been hundreds of people here, and Lucien suddenly realised how much he had dissociated himself with his family. He didn’t even know what his brothers were doing for a living.

Rhys was like an anchor behind him, always one step behind. Their fingers brushed as they stood on the side lines together. How he ached to take his hand.

He downed his champagne, trying to find some something to slow his heart rate.

In this room, the large open space with high ceilings and immense chandeliers, Lucien already spotted 3 out of 6 brothers.

Locke, Taren and Eris. All together in a circle. His fingers tightened more protectively around Feyre’s waist. Locke and Eris, the eldest, were the reason Lucien wet the bed until he was eleven.

“I don’t think you’ll have to be the one feigning ill,” Lucien muttered. “I’m already down that road.”

Feyre opened her mouth but was cut off by the shout that echoed across the ball room.

“ _Lucien!”_

His eldest brother had caught them through a parting of the crowd.

Lucien sucked in a breath and started walking towards them, his hand slipping into Feyre’s. If he hesitated, they would pick up on it.

They joined the circle they had created, Rhys still at his other side.

“Lucy fucking loo,” Eris tutted, smiling viciously. “Long time no see. Don’t I get a hug from my baby brother?”

He felt Feyre squeeze his hand, but he reluctantly let go to step into Eris’ embrace. He was stiff and nausea tightened his stomach as he stood there, silently begging for these moments to pass as quickly as possible. His brother slapped his back hard enough for Lucien to suppress a flinch.

As soon as he stepped back, his brother’s attention immediately went to Feyre.

Eris let out a long whistle. “What internet site did you buy her off, brother?”

Feyre tensed beside him. Lucien didn’t know a time where everything that Eris said to him was not riddled with subliminal insults and mocking.

Lucien took Feyre’s hand, refusing to look at her from the shame. “This is Feyre, my girlfriend. We met at work.” Every word was clipped. The pit in his stomach deepened, and he lowered his eyes to the ground. “And this is Rhys, my best friend.”

The three of them flickered their eyes at Rhys before returning back to Feyre.

“Congratulations,” Feyre said bitterly. “On your engagement. You must be one very lucky man.”

Eris’ eyes sharpened as he heard the jab.  _You’re lucky to have anyone chained to the likes of you._

“She’s a bit of a sparky one, isn’t she?” Locke said to Lucien.

“I’m right here,” Feyre interjected. “Do you find it difficult to talk to women?”

Eris and Taren barked out into laughter while Locke reddened, his skin blending into his hair. 

At least this was better than being alone. 

“I apologise, Feyre,” said Taren, “Locke is indeed inept at women. I think we’re all just in shock that Lucien has finally found a woman. A beautiful woman at that.”

Feyre remained completely impassive, sipping at her drink. But he felt her discomfort, her palm becoming clammy in his.

“Where’s mum?” Lucien said, trying to take the attention away from his girlfriend.

“She’s probably fawning over my fiancée,” Eris replied, his eyes glancing to Rhys in assessment. Then to Feyre. “In fact, she’d love to meet you, Feyre.”

“Yes, well, I think we’ll go find her.”

“We’ve barely caught up! You can’t-“ Something caught his eye. “Speak of the devil.”

Lucien turned to find his mother walking towards him. She was thinner than he last remembered, paler. She wore a long sleeved dress that pooled to the floor with her red hair trapped in a tight bun that accentuated the sloping features of her face. She was the sole reason that Lucien cared to come to these family gatherings.

“My boy,” she said before she wrapped her frail arms around his shoulders.

He held her tightly, deprived of her presence for too long.  _He had to start making an effort._

“I missed you so much,” she said, withdrawing and stroking his face. “You just get more handsome by the day.”

He gave her a watery smile. “Thanks mum. I missed you too.”

Her eyes glanced past his shoulder to Feyre. “Who’s this?”

“This,” he said, as Feyre took a tentative step forward, “is my girlfriend, Feyre.”

Her lips pulled up into a grin. Her mother took Feyre’s hand. “You’re so lovely. Oh how I wish I was young enough to wear a dress like that again.”

Feyre blushed at the compliment.

Then his mother’s eyes flickered to Rhys. “And this is?”

“This is Rhys, my bo-best friend.”  _Damn it damn it damn it you had one fucking job_

Lucien glanced behind his shoulder to find his brothers now dispersed elsewhere.

His mother gave him a knowing look. “I see.”

She gave her greetings to Rhys, who warmly took her hand and returned them.

“Shall we leave you to catch up?” Feyre proposed, squeezing Lucien’s forearm.

He nodded in thanks and stole a kiss from her lips before he glanced to Rhys. When he looked back to his mother, while Feyre and Rhys walked away arm in arm, she was studying him intently.

“Do you want some fresh air?” she asked.

“It’s freezing, mum.”

“We’ll go somewhere quiet then.”

***

They found a window seat on the opposite end of the house, where it was still and far away from the guests and the rest of his family. The corridor was dark and eerie, but Lucien found it more peaceful than anything.

“Now, tell me,” she said as they sat down, “How does this work between this Rhys and Feyre of yours.”

Lucien swallowed. No point in lying when he had already fucked up. “Feyre is my girlfriend, and Rhys is my boyfriend. We’re all romantically involved. Together.”

He dared to look at his mother, who instead wasn’t looking confused, but she was smiling gently.

“I always knew your heart was the biggest. So much love to give.”

“You don’t find this…odd?”

His mother clasped her hands together. “I’ve dabbled with polyamory in the past. I understand.”

Lucien’s jaw must have unhinged.

“It was the 70s, Lucien. It was just one big orgy.”

“Jesus Christ,  _mum._ ”

She chuckled at his expense, angling herself more towards him and taking his hand. “Do they make you happy?”

These were the moments where Lucien felt funny, like his stomach was performing acrobatics and his heart was up his throat, in his mouth, and grossly falling on his sleeve.

“The happiest,” he croaked out.

“That’s all a mother wants to hear,” she said.

“And you? Has dad…”

“Laid a hand on me? Twice this year. It’s decreasing. Both of the times have been when he was drunk.”

Lucien dragged his hand down his face, trying to stop the tears from accumulating.

“Please,  _please_ come down to London. You’re welcome in our home at any time,” he said for the thousandth time.

His mother shook her head. The moonlight seeped in the window behind them which illuminated his mother’s watery eyes.

“I must stay here, Lucien,” she said, she squeezed his hand. “My fifth child is getting married, I need to be there for my daughter-in-laws. Especially Ciara, Eris’ fiancée. She’s already told me some of the things he has done.”

“She can’t possibly love him.”

“But she does. I’ve already told her to get out while she can, but she is completely adamant on staying by his side. So, I have to be there for her, when she does decide to get out.”

“This is so fucked up,” he whispered, the tears streamed more heavily now.

“I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you, Lucien.”

And Lucien remembered being five and locked in a cupboard for eight hours overnight. Being seven and beaten into the ground when he was found playing with his mothers makeup. Eris had orchestrated it, who was 18 at the time. Being eight and almost drowned when his brothers held him under water of the local swimming pool. Being ten and warned by Taren that their brothers were planning on dragging Lucien out of bed and re-enacting the latest horror film they had watched. Twelve with a broken leg, not because he had fallen down the stairs, but because he had been pushed down. And every time, his mother had wiped at his tears baring similar bruises and broken bones.

He didn’t understand then. And he still didn’t understand now.

Even as each of the older brothers left for university, they always came back. For Christmas’, summers. His eldest brothers taught their younger brothers the best way to torment Lucien in their absence. And the physical pain evolved into emotional. Into insults and names fouler and more vicious. They undermined him and belittled him at every chance. Their suspicion of his sexuality was always the worst since he had never brought anyone home.

“I didn’t protect you either, mum.”

He would hear the shouting in the night. His mother being told to shut up at the dinner table. Being drugged by Beron to make her more docile. Lucien had once walked in on his father kicking his unconscious mother on the kitchen floor. Slaps and slurs. Broken ribs and silence. Beron would have killed her.

“That was never your job,” she said sternly.  

He knew she felt guilt. But he had already forgave her.

Silence enveloped them for a few moments as his mother reached out and wiped at his tears like she used to.

“Your father reached out to me a few weeks ago,” she then said. “He wrote me a letter. He will be in Vietnam now, I think.”

Lucien nodded, already knowing that Beron wasn’t his real dad, though still not knowing who his real dad was. Because it asked his mother to reopen wounds. She already suffered enough.

“In that letter,” she continued. “He gave me a phone number. He knows about you, Lucien.”

She handed him a tissue as he was now openly sobbing.

Something teared at his insides.

She pushed a small piece of paper into the hand she held. “You don’t need to do anything with it, but it’s there if you want to.”

She brought his head to her shoulder and wrapped her arms around him in a maternal hold.

He clutched on to her, like he was 10 again. When Beron wasn’t home so she would sleep in Lucien’s bed and hold him all night.

“I always knew you’d never turn out like them,” she murmured into his hair. “I knew you’d be the better man. Good and loving. Your father is like that.”

***

Rhys was in a killing calm. The mask he wore was impassive and disinterested. But his insides were molten lava. He was just glad that Feyre was far away, chatting with the wives of the despicable men before him.

He caught her laughing, throwing her head back as a woman animatedly told a story. He focused on the light that was Feyre Archeron while Lucien’s brothers and some of their friends discussed the best way to shut up a woman. It evolved from business, golf, the obligatory  _where are you from, Rhysand?_  to some high school memories, and finally to women. To ‘disobedient’ and ‘mouthy’ wives. How they were able to joke about raising a hand or slipping sleeping pills into their tea made his insides twist as he fantasised about their deaths.

They didn’t talk about Lucien, thankfully. Because if they did, Rhys would not have been responsible for his hands around Eris’ neck.

“What about you, Rhysand? Any tips? It looks like you’ve come across a boatload of gold diggers before,” said Eris, sipping at his champagne glass expectantly. Rhys did his best, until that point, to come across as an arsehole Christian Grey type. Until now.

Rhys glared.

“Those who pride in abusing women have a special place in hell waiting just for them. Their mindset is as twisted and as vile as they come. They taint this society with their bigoted hatred and perpetuate a systemic cycle of violence which traumatises and kills. I refuse to converse with lesser men who are inflated by their own self-importance and gravely insecure of their frail masculine identities. Let’s hope, that you never have sons to impart this toxic and backwards thinking. And I pray to god you never have daughters only to teach them that they are lesser, unworthy of a voice and respect and love. I would say have a good evening, but quite frankly, I hope you all die slow, terrible deaths.”

It sounded good in his head. But the speech never left his lips.

He stepped on decency and morality to force out a chuckle as he said, “Please excuse me.”

He couldn’t voice a comment vile enough to respond, so he got out of there before he called Azriel to put bullets in their heads.

He wanted to take Feyre in his arms and remind her just how powerful and intelligent she was. How every time she spoke, he would always be there to listen. Even if she was talking about architecture and Rhys had no idea what a  _mansard_  or an  _oriel_ or the different types of brickwork.  _Especially_ then. Because he liked learning from her. He liked watching her eyes light up as she got passionate.

But he had a role to play. He would tell her when they were alone, however.

Upon reaching her side, he placed a palm on her back as she looked up at him with a smile.

The urge to kiss her was almost unbearable.

His hand may have slipped around her waist at some point, but Rhys barely knew that he was doing it. She nudged him with her hip, giving him a look that said,  _too close._

With a nod, he let his hand drop, sliding them into his pockets to preoccupy them. Feyre continued shooting him glances while he listened to one of the women, the sister of the bride, talk of opening her own business.

He finally relented and caught her eye.

_Are you okay?_ she said.

_Define okay,_  he said back. He had never  _wanted_  to kill. But now his insides were twisted and his morality was teetering on a fine edge of dropping everything and murdering these foul men with hammers and chisels.

Her eyebrows knitted together, and she whispered, “Should we go find Lucien? He’s been gone for almost an hour now.”

Rhys held out his arm in agreement and she slipped her hand into the crease. They excused themselves from the group around them.

“My feet are fucking killing,” she said under her breath, clinging to Rhys’ arm as they travelled through the smatterings of people.

“I would be happy to swap but I have an inclination they are far too small for me.”

She flashed him a smile. “Do you ever stop being the hero?”

“The people of Gotham need me.”

A snort erupted from her mouth, causing one or two heads to turn and give his girlfriend dirty looks. Rhys glared back at the boring stuck up arseholes.

“I really don’t belong in this class of people,” she said.

“I’m really glad that you don’t,” he replied.

“I stick out so badly here though, every time I speak someone looks at me funny. Like they’re thinking,  _oh, you’re a commoner._ And my accent isn’t even that strong!”

Rhys looked at his northern girlfriend with a teasing smile, “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. I don’t talk peasant talk.”

She pinched his arm. “Shut up, posh boy.”

They reached the farthest end of double doors and peered into the hallway beyond.

Lucien’s mother was walking towards, her heels clicking on the mahogany floors.

“Is he okay?” Feyre asked as soon as she approached.

She gave a sad smile. “He’ll be okay. He’s in the gents now sorting himself out.” She touched Rhys’ arm. “You may need to go check on him.”

Rhys looked to Feyre as if to say,  _and_   _will you be okay?_

Feyre nodded and they parted. As he surged forward, he heard Feyre and Lucien’s mother converse softly.

He found the gents after a couple of twists and turns in the corridor and pushed it open to find his boyfriend leaning over the sink, palms flat on the marble countertop.

Lucien jolted up, probably expecting to see a stranger, but when he saw Rhys, he let out a shaky breath.

“Hiding?” Rhys asked.

“If my brothers knew I’d been fucking crying…” he shook his head.

That’s when Rhys noted the red lining his eyes, the faint flush of his cheeks.

“Come here,” Rhys said, grabbing Lucien’s hand and pulling him into a cubicle. Thankfully, it was completely sealed off.

That’s when Rhys wrapped his arms around his boyfriend.

“Fuck,” Lucien breathed into his shoulder. “I can’t cry again.”

“Deep breath in,” Rhys ordered. “And out.”

Rhys gripped him tighter when he let out a shudder, suddenly feeling exceptionally protective. Those instincts were already kicked in but now they were at an all time high.

_Where was the line? When am I going to turn so vengeful for the people that I love that I won’t be able to see straight?_  He thought.

He listened as Lucien spilled what had been said between him and his mother. All the while, Rhys stroked the back of his head and focused on keeping him calm.

“I can contact him,” Lucien said, before finally withdrawing from Rhys’ shoulder. “As in, proper communication with my real fucking father.”

“Right, you can contact him. But do you  _want_  to?” Rhys asked. He entwined his fingers with Lucien’s.

There was a long pause as Lucien closed his eyes in thought. “I don’t know. Not yet anyway. There’s too many factors that make this so complicated-“

They froze as the door to the bathroom opened and the patter of shoes sounded. Rhys counted three men.

The men were chuckling and bantering, even as they sounded at the urinals.

Rhys cut himself off from eavesdropping on John taking his wife and kids to their summer home in the south of France as he looked to Lucien, who was frowning at his phone.

Rhys glanced between them at the phone and Lucien tilted it towards him. It was their group chat.

_Feyre_ : help please

His heart sped up. But another message popped up straight away.

_Feyre_ : Lucien’s mum has had to leave me

_Feyre:_  everyone’s sitting down for dinner

Lucien texted rapidly back. Rhys tuned back into the scene beyond the cubicle door to find the men were still there.

_Lucien:_  stuck in a cubicle will be two mins, wait in the hallway babe

_Feyre:_ wow, whats the deal with getting stranded in fucken cubicles

_Lucien:_ they’re perfect for meltdowns

_Feyre:_ shit luce pls tell me you’re okay

_Lucien:_ I’m okay angel, I’ll tell you everything later

_Feyre:_ do I need to have a migraine rn?

Lucien’s thumbs paused over his phone and Rhys sent him a raise brow.

_Do you want to leave?_  Rhys asked silently.

A swallow. Lucien shook his head.

_Lucien:_  not yet, it would just give them fuel if we left now, also want to be there for mum

The bathroom door finally opened once more, the men’s chatter growing distant.

Rhys felt a bit desperate in that moment, perhaps it was the darkness that was growing inside of him that was calling for release. Which was why he pushed Lucien back into the wall and pressed his lips to his. It was frantic and fast, Lucien was caught by surprise but quickly returned the kiss with equal fervour. Hands in hair. Hands tugging at ties. They were pressed together, sharing air and space and breath. Lips sliding together, mouths hot as they shared soft moans.

When Rhys broke away, he said onto Lucien’s lips, “I’ll be there. About your father. Whether you decide to meet him or not. I’ll always be there.”

“I know,” Lucien said, his eyes half lidded in pleasure. “I love you.”

Rhys said it back in another kiss, just savouring the lips of his boyfriend before he went back pretending to be someone else. “Come on, we need to go save our girlfriend.”

***

“I’m not interested,” Feyre deadpanned.

The man before her made a face as his two friends behind him sniggered.

“Come on, princess. I’d be the perfect gentleman,” he said. His blonde hair was slicked back, his blue eyes crystal. He reminded her of a younger Tamlin. The man – the boy rather – must be only around 20.

“A perfect gentleman would have accepted my first  _no_.” She was losing patience, and she glanced over her shoulder to see when her boyfriends would round the corner.

“Oh come on, I would have thought a lovely lady like yourself would like to be chased.”

_For fucks sake._

“Well I ent’ a fucken lovely lady so piss off. And who wants to be flippin’ chased? Do I look like I can run in these heels to you? Dozy fucken tosspot ent’ ya.”

Feyre pulled out the northern charm, aka the big guns, which seemed to make its mark on the slimy man in front of her. He looked at her speechless.

“Well?” she pressed. “Go paw up some other poor lass-“

“Feyre,” said a familiar voice, “There you are, we’ve been looking for you.”

She felt Rhys’ presence beside her instantly, followed closely by Lucien at her other side.

“Apologies,” the man said. “She must be one of yours.”

“Are you taking the piss?” she stepped forward, propelled by this magical feminist energy that was pervading her senses. If only this energy saved her around Tamlin. “You only back off when you think I’m  _claimed_ by another man. You’re a fucking bell end.”

The man truly looked horrified and looked between her boyfriends behind her.

“I don’t know why you’re looking to us, but if you need clarification: you are a fucking bell end,” added Rhys, “So I suggest you go back to the party, sit down for dinner, and reflect on the meaning of  _no_  for the rest of the evening as well as practice some manners for when you get rejected in the future.”

The two mates of the man, looking quite pale, dragged the man before them by the arm into the main hall.

As soon as they were out of sight, Feyre let out a breath.

“You alright, babe?” Lucien asked, taking her hand.

“Yeah,” Feyre said looking between them.

She had dated a couple of men like that in her time, ones that thought they were entitled to her. Men who insisted on buying her dinner then insisted on going back home with her. Men who would relentlessly pest her for her number. Men who thought just because she said  _no_  that she was playing hard to get.

Lucien pressed his lips to her cheek. She raised her eyes to his.

“Proud of you,” he said.

Rhys ran a hand up her arm with a teasing smile. “Me too. You handled it so gracefully.”

Feyre snorted, though the words warmed her. “Come on, let’s sit down for dinner, I’m starved.”

***

Lucien found their seats near the back. Everyone was seated at the circular tables now as waiters trickled around and filled up half empty wine glasses.

They were quite far from where the rest of Lucien’s family were sitting, but he couldn’t find it in himself to be hurt by that gesture. In fact, he was relieved.

On their table already sat an elderly couple who were frowning at the set menu and complaining about the lack of veal and having to pick beef.

It was similar to the fine dining that Rhys sometimes took them to. Lucien had no idea what he was ordering at times. He picked out the names of the meat but everything else looked like gibberish.

Waiters came and poured them red or white wine. Both he and Feyre chose red, Rhys asking for water.

Rhys, to his right, had already decided and was observing their surroundings with casual interest. Feyre, to his left, was squinting at the set menu. The words were very small and the font was strange, and her dyslexia must be making it difficult.

They only found that out two weeks ago, in another restaurant with a gourmet menu. Her dyslexia was only mild, which is why she had gotten by without them knowing for so long, but there were times where Lucien could see the lump in her throat when she tried to read unfamiliar material. And why she was constantly putting her emails through proof reading sites before sending them.

She told them that if she wanted help, she would ask for it. That was it.

So, despite Rhys and himself noting how Feyre was struggling with the menu, they said nothing.

Though after a few moments Feyre let out shaky breath, pink tainting her cheeks. “Why is the stupid fucking font so small?” she uttered. “All I see is squiggly lines.”

The couple over the table narrowed their eyes at her, probably only picking up on the swearing.

It wasn’t a blatant call for help, but Lucien and Rhys heard it anyway.

“I was torn,” said Rhys casually, “Between the beef and the duck, but the vegetable cannelloni also sounds divine.”

There was also cold salmon on the menu, but Rhys knew she didn’t like salmon.

Feyre looked to him gratefully. “I think I’m inclined towards the duck.”

“I’ll think I’ll have the crab for starters,” said Lucien, knowing that Feyre loved crab. And the other two starters, Lucien had no idea what a lentil salad or a mushroom orzo was. But considering Feyre was indifferent to mushrooms and her northern blood was instinctively opposed to a salad as a dish, crab was the best bet.

“Me too,” Feyre said, putting the menu down and taking a sip of her wine.

Lucien placed his hand on her knee under the table. She laced her fingers with his.

They made small talk with the couple opposite them, though it was difficult to draw out a conversation with a woman who turned her nose up at everything and a husband who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but besides his wife.

Lucien glanced at his family nearer the front of the room. On a few of the round tables, his brothers were dispersed with his mum and Beron sitting at the table with Eris and his fiancée, alongside the parents of the bride.

There would no doubt be speeches later. Lucien took a long drag of his wine.

The food came and went, so did the wine. Feyre must have knocked back her third by the time the main came.

Lucien didn’t know how much he had, because every time the servers passed, they would refill his glass even if it was almost full. So he made it a game. Trying to drink as much before the server came by once more. If Rhys noticed how much he was drinking, he didn’t say anything of it. For that he was grateful. Because Lucien was desperate to feel the flood of alcohol in his blood. He needed to feel something other than this miserable grief that settled in his stomach.

And he was still hungry. So was Feyre, evidently.

“I’m still blooming hungry,” Feyre muttered to Rhys and himself. She cleaned the last of duck from her plate, looking down at the sauce left there with distaste. “There isn’t even any bread! What kind of establishment doesn’t offer  _bread_.”

Lucien smiled at her. “We’ll nip in the chippy on the way back.”

She leaned back in her seat with a slump and smiled dreamily. “I would kill for a kebab.”

The couple in front of them gave Feyre another dirty look and muttered between them. Lucien felt his blood flood with heat. The alcohol wasn’t helping.

“Lucien,” Rhys said, leaning in close to his side. “Ignore them, they’re boring, old and elitist. They are not worth your anger.”

Lucien thought about how calm and sexy his boyfriend was and got lost in a momentary fantasy of making him lose such traits in bed. Rhys, buried in Feyre. Lucien, buried in Rhys.  _Yes._ That had sent him crazy last time. They needed to do that again.

“Are you thinking about sex, foxboy?” Rhys breathed, his eyebrow raised.

Feyre was leaning into Lucien’s other side. “Yeah, I can practically see those kinky cogs turning in his head.”

_How the fuck were his boyfriend and girlfriend blooming mind readers?_

“Do you mind?” he said, blinking between them. “I was thinking about…” That’s when Lucien really felt the alcohol hit him. He couldn’t think of an excuse. “Fuck it, yeah, whatever. I was thinking about fucking you both through the bed.”

The old couple were looking truly scandalised now as Lucien realised he said that louder than he should have.

Lucien raised his glass to them. “I like sucking cock.”

Feyre spat out her own wine, coughing and spluttering.  

“You people are disgusting,” the woman spat out. It seemed to be the last straw.

Lucien smiled as they threw their napkins onto the table and got up, muttering and shuffling and gathering their things. A few heads turned on the surrounding tables, but Lucien felt rather godly in that moment.

_Thank you, wine_.

A waiter came to fill up their glasses.

“That was one way to get rid of them,” said Rhys. He was leaning back in his seat, looking exceptionally amused.

Tears were streaming out of Feyre’s eyes still. “I love scandalising the gentry.”

“We should make it a hobby,” Lucien said. He felt heavy and woozy.

Lucien then helped Feyre dab at her eyes to save her makeup. And he may have kissed her because she was looking rather perfect with her laugh and tears streaming down her face.

Safe to say, he was on the highroad to positively smashed.

***

Rhys looked to his lovers who were on another planet.

They were laughing, he wasn’t quite sure what they were laughing at. But Feyre had started giggling and now Lucien was losing it too and Rhys was just enjoying the general lack of inhibitions around the table.

It would only be a couple of minutes until the speeches since the last of dinner was cleared up moments ago. Soon he would have to cut off their wine supply, considering the dinner was very rich and that can’t be doing well mixing with the excess of wine. Especially red.

They were muttering now, throwing constant glances to Rhys as they bowed their heads. They were sniggering again.

“What?” Rhys asked, cocking his head.

Feyre cleared her throat and sat up straight. She looked at him with a soft smirk. “We think you’re hella hot. And we like your face. Would you like to have a threesome with us?”

Now that the couple had left, they were no longer overheard. The bustle and laughter of the room giving them some privacy.

Rhys smiled, “That’s a very forward proposition.”

“I’ll let you top,” Lucien said, a fox like smirk taking over his lips.

“ _That_  is also a very forward proposition. Do you mean I can actually top you or will you just ride me?”

Lucien pursed his lips in thought. “I’ll ride you. Feyre will sit on your face.”

“We have a deal,” Rhys laughed.

Feyre had gone very quiet when they both turned to her. She looked pale.

“Darling, you alright?”

“Yeah…” she said quietly, her voice thick. “Just don’t let me drink anymore, please.”

_And so it begins._

Rhys poured her a glass of water and she accepted it gratefully.

Lucien put his arm around the back of her chair. “I’ve got you, angel,” he slurred.

She hummed resting her head on his shoulder for a moment in thanks.

“I’m just gonna go to the loo,” she said, before swaying on her feet to stand. “Shit a brick, I’m more pissed than I thought.” She looked down at herself. “And thank god this dress is hiding my wine baby right now.”

Rhys’ cheeks hurt. “I’ll escort you.” He moved to stand but Feyre held her hand out to stop him.

“No, stay with Lucien, he’s had more than me.”

The translation was there:  _we cannot leave him alone and drunk in a room of his abusers._

“Text me if you need me, okay?”

She gave him a soft smile before she turned to leave, albeit slowly, like she was making an effort with each step to convince anyone who could be watching that  _no, she was not smashed._

Lucien stared intently at the table cloth when Rhys returned his attentions. He was about to say something but an echo sounded through the room as someone spoke through the speakers.

Lucien tensed, and Rhys immediately went on the offensive, turning his head to the source of the voice at the front of the room.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the celebration of the engagement of my eldest son Eris and his fiancée, Ciara.”

Lucien’s father was stood at the stage. From this distance, Rhys could make out his reddish brown hair and pale skin. His black tux immaculate.

So, this was the man that enabled the abuse of his boyfriend throughout his life. Who slapped him when he cried. Standing with his brothers was bad, but seeing Beron stand before him, who groomed his children to beat and abuse his youngest son.

Rhys fantasised about his blood.

Beron talked of trivial things, thanks and celebrations, light hearted jokes about Eris as a strapping young lad. A  _good_  man. Eris the funny and charming man. Eris the success story who would be taking over Beron’s business. Eris the loving elder brother.

Rhys reached for Lucien’s other hand under the table.

“This is such bullshit,” Lucien said, a tear running down his face.

“I know,” Rhys said, he gripped his hand. “I know.”

“As a father of seven sons,” said Beron, “It’s been a challenge to raise them all as good men. But I’m pleased to say that I’ve succeeded. But most of all with Eris.”

“These are  _lies_ , such fucking  _lies,_ ” Lucien spat out. A few heads turned and Rhys squeezed his boyfriend’s hand, leaning in.

“Lucien,” Rhys warned softly, “Shall we go get some air?”

“No,” he said, “I want to hear this little speech he’s made up.”

Lucien was terribly drunk. His eyes glazed from anger and alcohol. And that was a bad mix.

“Let’s go outside,” Rhys said, no longer asking. He should have done this before the speech even started.

Lucien looked to him with betrayal in his eyes.

“Lucien, if you stay in here, in this state, you’re going to make a mistake. Now let’s go outside and cool off.”

It seemed to only anger him further, as Lucien ripped his hand from Rhys’ and got up, swaying as he did so.

_Calm,_ Rhys reminded himself,  _you’re the calm one here._

Rhys swiftly got up beside him.

“Fuck you,” he spat out. “I don’t want air, I want to put my fist in my father’s fucking face.”

Heads were definitely turning on the surrounding tables now. They were making and scene, and Rhys was becoming desperate. He needed Feyre here. Maybe the two of them would be a greater deterrent.

Lucien began to move round the table, with evident intent to make his way to his father.

Rhys placed his palms on Lucien’s chest to stop him. “ _Don’t,_ ” he said lowly. “Lucien I can’t let you do this.”

“You’re supposed to be on  _my_ side!” Lucien exclaimed, years of trauma building up behind those eyes. It chipped into Rhys’ heart.

“I am on your side. I’m  _always_  on your side. But you’re not thinking clearly right now. You’re going to get hurt.”

“Get the fuck out of my way, Rhysand.” He tried again to sidestep Rhys. But Rhys was quicker. He tugged at Lucien’s arm in attempt to pull him from the room. Waves of murmurs and whispers rippled through the room. Rhys realised that Beron was no longer speaking and he glanced to find him still standing at the stage, staring right at them. Along with the rest of the room. It seemed that they had caught the attention of everyone here. Servers looked around at a loss of what to do.

“Don’t manhandle me Rhys, you can’t stop me.”

“Lucien,  _please,_ ” Rhys breathed out. It was like a wall of obsidian was locked around Lucien’s mind, because Rhys couldn’t get in.

Lucien’s gaze was still set on the Beron, his mouth twisting into fury. Rhys was wracking his brain for a way to appease him. To get through without forcefully dragging him from the room.

“Do you fucking see me now?” Lucien shouted, as he slipped from Rhys’ grip, his voice echoing across the room. “I’m going to k-“

Without hesitation or any reflection, Rhys caught up with him once more and pressed his mouth to Lucien’s.

In front of everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the love everyone, I adore your reactions!!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated <3


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